


Transformation

by amalin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Hogwarts Sixth Year, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-10
Updated: 2005-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:54:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 98,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25455001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amalin/pseuds/amalin
Summary: Harry/Draco, with a mild shot of Harry/Tonks. In Harry's sixth year at Hogwarts, he must face the consequences of the attack on the Department of Mysteries and the effects of Voldemort's return. And in doing so, he finds that even your enemies can teach you valuable lessons—about the world, and about yourself.[Originally written and posted in July 2005, before the publication of HBP.]
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter/Nymphadora Tonks
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I could not have written this fic without the incredible aid of the HP Lexicon. And the title, taken from a beautifully articulate post of Aja’s, is all hers. Thanks go to frowl.org for hosting this for the past fifteen years, and to Christy for her invaluable input. Moreover, I owe eternal gratitude to Susan, the best beta-reader and consultant anyone could ever want. I could not have done this without her.
> 
> And to Aja and Reena, whose belief in these boys is inspiring, but whose belief in me is even more so: this is for you.

The owls had come every day. That was the last thought in Vernon Dursley’s head when he answered the door of number four, Privet Drive, to find his son, as red-faced, sweaty, and stout as usual, lying on their front stoop with his eyes glazed. The owls had come every day, he had not stopped them, and there was no reason for this. It was nearing evening in the middle of sweltering July, and his ample son Dudley was gazing up at him with the stare of the dead.

Vernon Dursley stuttered, “What the devil—" and then, louder, “P-Petunia! Petunia!” upon which his wife came running from the kitchen and promptly began to scream.

“My Diddykins,” she shrieked, “oh, oh, Diddy,” and collapsed on his vast, motionless bulk with tears streaming from her eyes. Her wail went on and on for what seemed like whole minutes, until she at last subsided to a keening sob, broken by hiccuped “Diddydums, my baby, my Dudders,” that were muffled by his body.

“He’s all right,” Vernon blustered over her weeping, “Petunia, he’s all right, the boy’s all right!” His mustache twitched tremendously, his cheeks reddening and his fists clenching and unclenching with nothing to do. “It’s a, a whatsamacallit, one of them—" Vernon lowered his voice—“spell thingers, it’s him, it’s Potter, I know it is!” Mustache flaring out more agitatedly, he bellowed, “Boy, you come down here, you get down here right now!”

“He hurt my baby, my Diddykins,” Petunia bawled.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, bring him inside,” Vernon commanded, his face growing redder by the second. A vein pulsed madly in his temple. “He’s not really—he can’t be—it’s some sort of _thing_ , that boy did it, he’ll put it to right!” Pushing Petunia out of the way, he hefted Dudley’s body inside the door and slammed it shut. “Boy,” he shouted again, “you get down here this instant!”

But Harry wasn’t anywhere to be found at number four, Privet Drive; he’d vacated the house that morning, shortly after Dudley set out with his pals, and had spent the remainder of the day wandering Little Whinging and sitting in the park. And, at this very moment, he was watching the last few older boys and girls tug their younger siblings home for dinner while sitting listlessly on a swing, entirely unaware that a few blocks away his cousin had just shown up at home dead.

To Harry, this day was no better or worse than any of the other days of that long, simmering summer. It had looked promising from where he’d stood at King’s Cross, surrounded by the Weasleys and everyone who cared about him in the wizarding world, hopeful that his stay at the Dursleys would be brief. It would be, they kept promising him, in the owls he received daily; it was only the third week of July, and soon he could come to 12 Grimmauld Place to join the rest of them. Only Harry wasn’t sure he would find much solace there, either, haunted by Sirius in every room. It wasn’t the absence of owls or even information that kept Harry sullen; though not much could be included in an owl, he at least received some sort of correspondence from Hermione, Ron, or Lupin every day, and occasionally a few scribbled words from Tonks or the Weasley family. But every letter that was delivered—provoking a livid shout of “Those bloody owls!” from Uncle Vernon—only served to remind Harry of one that wasn’t. It just made him think of Sirius.

Which was more or less the reason he had spent the summer lost in thought, all his frustration and grief pent-up inside him, made worse by the helpless, idle days he was trapped with the Dursleys. He followed the Daily Prophet’s headlines religiously, but they rarely offered anything more than a picture of Fudge gesturing wildly and several letters claiming Voldemort sightings. He found more substance reading between the lines in Lupin’s letters. And what he saw there, beyond reassurance that the Order was still hard at work, was a similar acknowledgement of absence, and that spoke volumes more than the tribute to Sirius Black that ran in the Prophet a week after his name was cleared.

Sirius. Sometimes he seemed very far away, as if Harry had scarcely known him, as if he were a memory left over from some distant life before. And sometimes, in the middle of poking at Aunt Petunia’s meager dinners or on his way home from the park in the blue-dark evening, the loss felt so immediate that he froze for a moment, stunned by his godfather’s last arcing fall.

“Harry?” The voice was familiar but strained with urgency, and it startled Harry badly. His wand was in his hand in an instant—he could think of no one in Little Whinging save Mrs. Figg who ever called him Harry—and he leapt from the swing to see Arthur Weasley standing there, looking tired and anxious, with lines of worry creasing his forehead. “Harry,” he said again, and then, “Here, put that away, we don’t want anyone to see.”

“Mr. Weasley?” Harry tucked his wand away and looked up at his best friend’s father, whose robes looked as if they’d seen much better days, and who was wiping his forehead of sweat.

“Bit warm, isn’t it?” he said distractedly. “Anyway, Harry, look, we’ve just got word—Mundungus was keeping an eye on you like he was supposed to, and then—"

Harry quickly crushed the flare of excitement that had soared inside him at the words. He wasn’t thrilled at the idea of danger, of course. He didn’t want to think about anyone else getting hurt because of him. But all the same, things had been maddeningly stagnant for far too long, and the idea of something happening made a small part of him eager.

“Well,” said Mr. Weasley, “the short of it is, I’m very sorry, but it seems your cousin has been, ahem, murdered. Your aunt and uncle have just found him, his body was left . . .”

But Harry heard none of that; he was stuck on the word _murdered_. “Dudley?” he murmured, slowly, as if he’d been mistaken. He felt as if he were in a trance. “Not Dudley. Aunt Petunia would never let anything happen to her Dudley.”

“Harry,” Mr. Weasley was saying, peering at him, “Harry, are you listening to me? You’ve got to come with us immediately, we’ll go to the Order’s Headquarters, something’s gone wrong. We don’t know how you were found, you see, it’s a very strong magic keeping you hidden here, and there’s the possibility they might come back. You see, if your aunt is killed, Dumbledore thinks your mother’s protection will no longer save you. Harry? You come with me, we’ll get it sorted out.”

Harry said, “Hedwig,” dazedly, still shocked by his cousin’s sudden death. “I need—I’ve got Hedwig at the Dursleys, and my trunk, I—"

“Oh yes,” Mr. Weasley nodded, “we’ve got to stop by anyhow, Tonks is there right now, securing the grounds and talking to your aunt and uncle. I’ve just got to make sure everything’s in order . . .” He took Harry’s elbow and steered him towards the street as he spoke. “Quite a shock, I can imagine. I’m very sorry, Harry, we’ve just got to hurry, you see.” He strode towards Privet Drive, walking faster than usual, and Harry rushed along beside him. When they neared his home, Harry spotted a woman sitting on the stoop, arms across her knees. It was only when he moved closer that he realized it was Tonks.

“Wotcher, Harry,” she said, giving him a quick grin. It looked, perhaps, a little strained, but he didn’t expect she’d had an easy summer either, as the Ministry had sprung into futile action and was sending the Aurors on worthless missions in a show of force. “Sorry to hear about your cousin. Your aunt and uncle are safe, though, Dung’s got ‘em inside.”

“Er,” said Harry, and then, “Your hair, it’s—"

Tonks winked. “I know, I’ve gone brunette. Just for now, you see, can’t have the neighbors suspecting and all. You can imagine the fit your relatives would have if the neighbors saw someone with blue hair step into their house?”

“That’s considerate of you,” Harry said, because he didn’t know what else to say. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to think of his aunt and uncle now that Dudley was dead.

He was, however, fairly sure he knew how they thought of him.

“YOU,” Uncle Vernon bellowed, the instant Harry stepped inside the house with Mr. Weasley at his back. “YOU—YOU MURDERER, HOW DARE YOU COME IN HERE? YOU KILLED OUR DUDLEY, BOY! UNDO IT RIGHT NOW! GET OUT YOUR THINGERMAJIGGER AND BRING HIM BACK, YOU HEAR ME?”

Aunt Petunia was weeping in the corner, face buried in her hands, her hair disheveled and her skin splotchy where Harry could see it between her fingers. She sobbed out, “Oh, Diddy, my Diddykins,” when she looked up at Harry with wild eyes, but that was all. He felt a sudden crippling pang of pity for the relatives who had treated him with nothing but scorn and hatred all his life.

“I—I can’t do it, Uncle Vernon,” he said, very quietly.

“You most certainly will do it! What is it, you can’t use your, your thing, when you aren’t in the madhouse? Well you jolly well will, you’ve already done enough with it, haven’t you!” His piggy eyes were bulging at Harry, glossy and desperate. “You murdered him! Bring him back, boy, you do it right now!”

“I _can’t_ ,” Harry said again, harder this time. “I didn’t kill him and I can’t do anything about it, all right? Don’t you think I would if I could? Don’t you think my mum and dad would be here right now if I could? Don’t you think—" But his uncle knew nothing about anyone named Cedric Diggory or Sirius Black, and the effort of saying their names was too much for Harry just then.

He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder, and then Mr. Weasley said gently, “Go on, Harry, go upstairs and get your things. I’ll take care of this.”

Harry said nothing, but he went to the stairs, Uncle Vernon’s stare following him all the way. He heard his aunt weeping all the way from his bedroom, and he threw his books and other possessions together with more of a racket than was necessary, trying to drown her out. When he had finished, either she had stopped crying or someone had cast a Silencing Spell, and he descended the stairs to find no one there but Mr. Weasley.

“Come on, Harry,” he said, rubbing his face wearily, “we’ve got to get out of here.”

“Where is he?” Harry demanded. He hadn’t expected the words to come out of his mouth and stood there for a moment, uncertain. He’d looked about for Dudley’s portly figure when he entered the house, but his cousin was nowhere to be seen. “Where’s the body?”

“Do you really want to see him?”

Harry stood there, Hedwig’s cage in one hand and his trunk at his side, feeling suddenly, bewilderingly alone. “I—no,” he said, “no, I don’t want to see him.”

Mr. Weasley clapped him on the shoulder again and picked up Hedwig’s cage. “Here,” he said, sounding a bit helpless at not knowing what more to say, and levitated Harry’s things, prodding them with his wand towards the door. When Harry followed him, he was startled to see the familiar purple monstrosity of the Knight Bus idling in the street, Stanley Shunpike grinning from the driver’s seat. Tonks was waiting next to it, her hair turned purple to match.

“Go with Tonks,” Mr. Weasley instructed. “I’ve got to get back right away. Don’t worry about your relatives. You can owl them later, if you’d like.”

Harry gave him a wavering smile. “I don’t think they’d like that very much,” he said, and moved towards the bus. “Um, thanks, Mr. Weasley.”

“Take care, Harry,” Mr. Weasley said, patting him on the back. “I’ll see you very soon.”

With one last tired smile, he Disapparated, and Harry was left alone with Stan Shunpike’s pimply grin and Tonks’s virulently purple hair. “Better hurry,” she shouted, and he followed her up the steps while she stuffed his luggage out of the way. He settled in the first seat available, next to a dozing older woman with a hat not unlike Neville’s grandmother’s, which left Tonks to sit several rows behind him. He felt a bit cruel, avoiding her, but he was in no mood for the chatter he knew would come with the young Auror’s company.

“All set?” Stan said, winking at Harry. “Good to see you on ‘ere again.”

“Um, yes,” said Harry, whose ticket Tonks had bought, and he barely had a chance to grab at the back of the seat in front of him before Stan plopped back down at the wheel and the bus jolted off down the street, swerving alarmingly around a parked car before it went BANG and Harry was nearly thrown off his feet, knuckles white from the effort of staying upright. The woman beside him started violently, muttered, “Good heavens!” and settled back down again, her hat over her face.

Four more jolting jumps and the Knight Bus squealed to a halt on Grimmauld Place, nearly knocking Harry unconscious as he jerked dangerously close to the seat in front of him. He stood up unsteadily and disembarked, Tonks close at his heels, and then he was face to face with a street he remembered all too well. “Thanks,” he croaked out, when Tonks levitated his things, and thought as hard as he could about 12 Grimmauld Place. He wasn’t surprised when the thought made his stomach twist as wildly as the serpent doorknocker which adorned the shabby, creaky door that appeared before them.

“Here we are,” Tonks said, cheerfully, and tapped the door loudly with her wand. When it finally cracked open, she shooed him inside, and his trunk followed him into the dark. Hedwig gave one soft squawk, and then the door shut and Harry was flooded with the sickly sweet scent of rot and decay that haunted the hall. He felt he might be sick.

“Um,” Harry said, “Tonks, I’m not sure I—" and then there were footsteps and a sudden flaring of the gloomy lights along the hall, and he was being smothered in Hermione’s hair. She smelled like dust and lilacs and sniffed a little when she pulled away from him, saying like a copy of Mrs. Weasley, “Oh, Harry, you feel thin, haven’t you been eating?” Behind her, Ron was standing with his hands in his trouser pockets, lanky and uncomfortable, and when Harry looked up at him, he flashed Harry such a familiar grin that all the knots in Harry’s stomach pooled and dissolved.

“Hermione—"

“Yes, yes, I just got here,” Hermione informed him, businesslike now, leading him further into the house. “On Thursday, actually. I meant to write you yesterday, but things have been so hectic, you know, and then today, everyone was in such a turmoil, and I can’t imagine how it must have been for you.” When they got to the staircase, as dim and creaky as Harry recalled, she turned around and smiled at him again, warm and reassuring. “Harry,” she said, “how _are_ you?” But before he could speak, she continued on, “Mrs. Weasley’s just told us, I’m so sorry about your cousin. I know you didn’t like him much, and he seemed like a horrible, horrible boy, but it’s awful, isn’t it?”

“A bit,” Harry said, overwhelmed. Tonks had disappeared somewhere behind him, and Ron was left holding on to the straps of Harry’s trunk, which bobbed in the air. Harry looked at him and was rewarded with a raised eyebrow, as if to say, _I’ve put up with her for the past three days, don’t tell_ me _about it._

“Sorry, mate,” he said, “even Dudley doesn’t deserve such an end. Nobody does.” He considered. “Well, maybe that git Malfoy.”

Harry gave them both a weak smile. Now that Hermione had settled down and they were climbing the stairs, everything came rushing back in, and the weight of being in Sirius’s home without Sirius was just as heavy as it had been when he stood on the doorstep. “What?” he said, when he saw Ron looking at him quizzically.

“I asked if you were hungry,” Ron repeated. “Mum’s kept some leftovers for you, if you want them.”

He was starving. But he looked at his friends’ beaming faces and said, a little more coldly than he meant, “I’m a bit tired, actually,” and took his trunk from Ron with a jerk. Realizing by the startled look on Ron’s face that he may have been too harsh, he added quickly, “Been a long day, you know, and the Knight Bus, bangs you all around . . .”

“Right,” said Ron, at the same time Hermione exclaimed, “Of course, Harry, we won’t keep you!” Both of them stood around the doorway while Harry pulled his trunk in and let it settle beside the unclaimed bed. The room was exactly as he remembered it, though Phineas was not in his frame.

“Good night, Harry,” Hermione said after a minute, though she lingered, frown creasing the area between her eyes. “Well, and Harry, if you ever want to talk about anything, you know, if you think Sir—"

“That’s enough, Hermione,” Ron interrupted her, as abruptly as he had at the end of fifth year.

Harry was suddenly grateful for his friend’s blundering attempts to keep her from addressing the subject. He said, awkwardly, “Maybe I will come downstairs, I haven’t eaten dinner,” and was rewarded with relief from both faces. They tramped down the stairs, Harry searching desperately for a topic unrelated to Sirius, which was difficult considering their surroundings. Staring absently at the hair on the nape of Ron’s neck and the way it twisted when Ron turned around to look at him, he asked, “What have you been doing, anyway?”

“Cleaning,” Ron groaned. “Mum’s to do list keeps growing, I swear, and most of the time Fred and George are at the shop, so it’s just me and Gin. It’s just loads of fun, let me tell you.”

The subject was inescapable. Harry ran his finger along the dust on the banister, frowning. “Well, but, I thought,” he said, “you can’t just—Sirius’s house?”

“Sirius gave it to Professor Lupin to be used for Order business,” Hermione told him gently. “It’s official now. Mrs. Weasley has kindly taken over its upkeep, and we’re helping.”

“More like slaving, if you ask me,” Ron muttered darkly, but they had reached the kitchen and it, at least, had succumbed in its battle with Molly Weasley. The whole room was well-lit and warm; pots were scrubbing themselves vigorously in the sinks, while Celestina Warbeck warbled tinnily from a small radio. At Mrs. Weasley’s side was a slim girl with flaming red hair, arguing tirelessly as she dried plates. Hearing Ron’s voice, both turned and exclaimed, “Harry!”

“Hi, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry said, “hey, Ginny.”

“Sorry about your cousin,” Ginny said matter-of-factly, right away, brandishing a dish towel in one hand and a large, dripping platter in the other. She set to work towelling it dry as she spoke. “Glad you’re here, though. You can tell Mum how safe Fred and George are with their shop. _Can’t you?_ ” This last bit was accompanied by a scowl in Hermione’s direction, and Ron poked him warningly in the side.

“Er, very safe,” Harry said, automatically, “and they’re pretty successful now, aren’t they? Why?”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Gin wants to work with the twins a few days a week,” he explained. “She hasn’t shut up about it since we set foot in King’s Cross.” To Ginny, he said, “Give it a rest.”

“I’m not a little girl,” she retorted, more to her mother than her brother, whom she promptly ignored. “I mean it, Mum, when’s the last time either of them came home with singed hair? It’s been at least a year! And I’m better in Potions, I am. Aren’t I, Hermione? I do better than _Ron_ does—"

“Oh, stuff it,” said Ron.

“—and I visit them all the time, it’s not like they’re far away, can’t I just work two days a week? _One_? They need help, Fred told me, he said I’d be first pick, you know how particular they are!”

“For the hundredth time, absolutely not, Ginevra.” Mrs. Weasley dried her hands briskly on Ginny’s towel and turned to Harry. “You look pale, Harry,” she fussed, “and so thin, poor boy, haven’t you been eating? Have those horrible people been forgetting to feed you? Oh, dear, I shouldn’t have said that, they’ve just lost their son, I’m terribly sorry . . .”

“It’s all right,” Harry said, uncomfortably. “I’ve been eating okay.”

“He’s all skin and bones,” she said to no one in particular, tsk-tsking as she pushed him towards a chair. “Sit down, Arthur’ll be home soon, and I’ll warm up some leftovers for the both of you. How have you been, Harry? You must be exhausted, and it must have been awful, leaving like that—Arthur will take care of them, you know that, in fact, I’m sure he’s just finishing up the paperwork business right now—”

“What business am I doing right now?” Mr. Weasley asked as he trudged into the kitchen and collapsed into the chair beside Harry. Rubbing his temples, he added, “If it has anything to do with your cooking, you’re probably right.”

Harry was relieved for an interruption, but when Mr. Weasley wasn’t forthcoming about further details and Mrs. Weasley was still bustling around the kitchen, he found he had nothing else to say. “How have you been, Harry?” she prompted again, handing him a tall glass of pumpkin juice. To Harry, every word she spoke was a word she didn’t, which all came down to _Sirius_.

“I, all right, um,” he said. “Um, it’s been hot, you know.” Remembering something and seizing on it, he exclaimed, “I’ve been thinking about my OWLs a lot.”

“Oh, of course, of course,” Mrs. Weasley said, looking torn between disappointment and pride. “Ron here has been very preoccupied with them, too, worried about his Transfiguration scores, haven’t you now—"

“I have not,” Ron retorted, arms folded over his lanky frame. “Anyhow, _Hermione_ ’s been going spare.”

“I’m only—" Hermione began, when Mrs. Weasley set a plate of food before Harry and he forgot about whatever it was Hermione had been saying. He thought it was about Ancient Runes, because Ron’s eyes turned immediately glassy and Ginny rolled hers, so he concentrated on his food and let the others do the talking. It was cozy there, even with the peeling wallpaper and the taps at the sink that flashed fangs at him when he got up for a glass of water. When he turned around, Mr. Weasley was looking at him expectantly.

“Sorry, what?”

“I said, you might want to see Remus before you go to bed,” Mr. Weasley repeated. “He’ll be in the study, I expect.” He waited a moment, but Harry’s uncertainty spurred him towards further explanation, and he said patiently, “End of term was rather hectic, you’ll remember, but there are a few things to straighten out with Sirius’s will—"

Harry turned back to the sink on the pretense of refilling his glass, something catching in his throat. There it was again, _Sirius, Sirius_ , he couldn’t escape. Turning, he expected the routine pity and anxiety that had colored everyone’s faces since they returned from the Department of Mysteries. However, what he found was Ron beaming up at him, eyes sharp with excitement.

“Wait’ll you hear, Harry,” he exclaimed, having sat bolt upright. Ginny herself looked a bit thrilled. “I can’t believe I forgot to tell you!”

Harry looked askance at the disapproval on Mrs. Weasley’s and Hermione’s faces, and he frowned at Mr. Weasley. “Er,” he said, with some trepidation, “tell me what?”

“You really ought to hear it from Remus,” Mr. Weasley began, “and Ron, it’s none of your business—"

“Oh, enough already,” Mrs. Weasley cut him off. “It’s this silly motorbike business again, which is quite ridiculous, as Harry won’t be riding it any time soon, and you, Ronald Weasley, will certainly never go near it, do you hear me now?” At Ginny’s laugh, quickly turned into a cough, she looked up sharply. “Nor will you, Ginevra, if you’d like to ever set foot in a Weasley house again!”

Harry was no longer listening. He looked to Mr. Weasley for confirmation, who nodded once, and tried to ignore Ron’s beaming face. Sirius had left Harry his motorbike. Dudley was dead and Sirius had left Harry his motorbike and Harry was standing in Sirius’s kitchen that was not even Sirius’s kitchen, because Sirius would never see it again. He felt something tightening inside him, making it hard to breathe. The room seemed as if it were going fuzzy around the edges.

“You can talk to him tomorrow, of course,” Mr. Weasley said, his voice sounding very far away. Harry nodded, a mechanical motion; he could not look at Hermione, whose concerned look was all too familiar, or Ginny, who was looking down at the table studiously, or Ron, whose expression of glee was swiftly morphing towards bewilderment. It was too late, however, for Mrs. Weasley, who immediately swooped down on him.

“Now look what you’ve done,” she admonished, “the poor boy’s exhausted, and he’s been through quite enough today. When I think of your poor cousin . . . . Why, we’ve been just awful. Harry, are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Mrs. Weasley,” he struggled out, enduring her embrace. “I think I’m going to go to bed now.”

“Yes, yes,” she bustled, “you must be just ready to collapse. You go up with him, Ron, and Ginny, isn’t it nearly your bedtime, too?”

“I’m not _ten_ ,” Ginny said indignantly, but she stomped out of the kitchen when her mother gave her a no-nonsense look.

Harry said his goodnights and tramped up the stairs with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, but he could not focus on any of it. Something about the conversation had brought back an image of Uncle Vernon, purple with rage and denial, shaking his finger at Harry and shouting that he was a murderer. The gloom of the House of Black seemed to mock him the same way, screaming silently to him that he had done this, he was the one who had left it to Molly Weasley to redecorate, who had given it over to Muggle-lovers and werewolves. He was the one who had killed Sirius. Killed Dudley. Who was next?

“Well, good night,” Harry said abruptly to Ron, when they climbed into bed. He tried not to hear the hurt in Ron’s voice when he said good night, tried not to think about how Hermione might be whispering about him right now, telling Ginny how worried she’d become.

He rolled over in the darkness, haunted by a thousand Uncle Vernons pointing at him out of the dark, and when he finally fell asleep, he was chased by Dudley’s accusing, dead-eyed stare as he reached his piggy hands through the tattered veil. It was Sirius’s voice Harry heard, however, when Dudley called out, “Harry, Harry!” Dudley had just closed his thick fingers around Harry’s arm when he called again, “ _Harry_ ,” and then it was Mrs. Weasley standing above Harry, light streaming in to illuminate the dust-heavy air, and it was morning.

The July heat waned at last and the weather endured for several days, but the warmth returned viciously just as the summer passed into August, and Harry’s sixteenth birthday dawned scorching and cloudless. It was his first birthday anywhere but Privet Drive, and the thought was conflicting—on one hand, he was finally with people who loved him, but on the other, the thought of Privet Drive made it difficult to breathe. He thought of his Aunt Petunia haunting corners for weeks, her face red and raw from so many tears. Sometimes he dreamed about her, and she always smothered him with her sobbing, beating at him uselessly with her fists.

He might be able to keep Voldemort out of his dreams with practice, but nothing kept out the nightmares.

“Happy birthday, mate!” Ron said, grinning, the moment Harry opened his eyes and yawned at the sun. He was sitting on his own bed, dressed and washed, flipping through an old Quidditch magazine. “Took you long enough, didn’t it? It’s nearly noon.”

Harry threw a pillow at him. “Well, I couldn’t sleep through your snoring,” he retorted, and crawled out of bed to tug on a spare pair of Ron’s jeans. He had to roll the cuffs several times for them to fit him at all, but he hated walking around in Dudley’s castoffs, knowing their previous owner would buy no more.

“Come on,” Ron said impatiently, “come downstairs, Mum’ll have made you a real breakfast.” He jiggled his leg anxiously while Harry rummaged about for a shirt, then dragged him to the staircase and down the steps two at a time.

Hermione was waiting at the bottom, eyebrow quirked. “Could you _make_ any more noise, Ron,” she said scathingly, “I’m sure the whole household heard you clattering down here.” And then, sunnily, to Harry, “Good morning, Harry! I’m so glad you’re not in that awf—well, I’m just glad you’re here with us for your birthday.” The topic of the Dursleys had been treaded around carefully since he had arrived, and when they were mentioned, it was without the usual “horrible” or “awful” adjective, as if everything had changed. “Anyway,” Hermione added, looking uncomfortable, “Happy sixteenth!” and she promptly flung her arms around him and hugged him tightly.

“Absolutely nutters, that one,” Ron muttered to Harry, a moment later, as they followed her down the hall.

But upon reaching the kitchen, Harry could see why Hermione had been so conscious about Ron’s banging around. Gathered in the kitchen were at least a dozen witches and wizards, and Lupin and Mrs. Weasley were the only ones whom Harry recognized. Upon his entrance, several of them clapped, and one lavender-clad woman rushed forward to pump his hand. “Happy birthday, Harry Potter,” she declared, and with nothing more, quickly hurried out of the kitchen. When two others approached him just afterwards, it became clear that they were all merely there to wish him good tidings on his birthday.

Harry felt his face begin to heat up. He wished he hadn’t just grabbed the first shirt he found, a faded white t-shirt Oliver Wood had left behind in the Quidditch lockers after third year that Harry had taken by accident and forgot to return. It was well-worn by now; one of the sleeves had begun to unravel, and it was too small in the shoulders. He rubbed his forehead self-consciously, mumbling an awkward “Thank you” at the two witches who pushed a box of Honeydukes chocolates at him and scurried from the room. When all the rest had gone, he glanced at Lupin, who looked amused.

“Didn’t expect a crowd, did you?” he asked and steered Harry towards a chair. “Those in the Order who do know where you are were a bit, shall we say, eager to see you on your birthday.” He smiled. “You’ve been cheating them out of it for fifteen years, you know.”

Harry watched Ron eagerly pick through the three boxes of chocolates he had amassed, exclaiming now and then, “ _Caramel_ , brilliant,” or “Is this coconut, do you think?” Harry frowned. “But I don’t know any of them,” he said.

“I think you’ll find that quite a lot of people you don’t know want to wish you a happy birthday,” Lupin replied, still smiling. “I expect the Dursleys have been blocking the owl post every year.”

“I don’t know what—" Harry began to say, when the first owl arrived in a flurry and dropped a very large card on his lap. He had scarcely opened it when three more were delivered, each of them bearing good wishes to Harry Potter on his sixteenth birthday. He looked up, bewildered. “What’s all this for?”

“Your fans,” Ginny said from behind him, leaning against the doorframe, just as another four letters arrived.

“But I don’t _want_ fans,” he said, feeling altogether embarrassed. He didn’t want to be Gilderoy Lockhart, signing autographed pictures over breakfast, bowing at strangers as if it were his due when they wished him a happy birthday. He was relieved when Mrs. Weasley began to set dishes on the table, letting himself be distracted by breakfast while Ron, Hermione, and Ginny all eagerly began to open the new mail. With the exception of Hagrid and a card that fizzled into tiny fireworks from the twins, Harry knew none of the senders. A few of them were enchanted to sing, and Harry was startled every time by an unfamiliar voice singing him a happy birthday. One was from a high and screechy witch named Eloise, and Ron liked her rendition of “Happy Birthday” so much that he played it four times before Mrs. Weasley confiscated it.

What Harry wanted most was a quiet birthday with the Weasleys, but after an afternoon of Exploding Snap with Hermione, Ron, and Ginny, Ron nudged him eagerly on the shoulder. “Wait’ll you see where we’re going tonight,” he whispered, purposely pitching his voice low. “Mum thinks we’re visiting the twins, she’d never let us even go there ordinarily, but it’s your first wizarding birthday, you know.”

“I,” Harry began, but just then Mrs. Weasley called Ginny to help with dinner and Hermione went along. He lowered his voice too. “Where are we really going, then?”

“It’s this club,” Ron said, his eyes bright and excited, “it’s by Diagon, you’ll see. It’s brilliant. I went there once, but we didn’t stay very long.”

“You—who’d you go with?” Harry tried not to be indignant at this new revelation, from which he had been excluded.

“Ginny,” Ron said, and made a face. “She was supposed to meet Dean, and I couldn’t very well let her go to a club by herself, she’s my little sister and all.”

“I am not little,” Ginny interrupted sharply, having slipped back in without their noticing, “and you don’t know anything about it, Ron. Besides, Hermione and I are going with you.”

“You’re what?” Ron yelped. “No, you aren’t!”

Ginny put her hands on her hips. “Like we’re going to stay home and _knit_ while you go? Don’t be ridiculous, Ron. It’s Harry’s birthday anyway, and you’d want us there, wouldn’t you, Harry?”

“Um,” Harry managed, before Ron said belligerently, “But Hermione likes to knit!”

“Mum,” Ginny yelled out, “Ron won’t let me come with him to Fred and George’s shop! And he won’t let Hermione come either!”

Mrs. Weasley appeared at the kitchen door, drying her hands on her apron. “Now, now, Ron,” she said, “that’s not nice, Hermione’s a guest here, you know. All three of you will go, and that’s final. As for you, Ginny—"

“I’m going,” Ginny said, red-faced. “If you don’t let me go I’m just going to run away and live with Fred and George and you’ll be sorry.” Mrs. Weasley looked momentarily flustered, and Ginny put a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with the realization of what she had said. “Oh, Mum, I didn’t mean it that way, I won’t ever be like P—I mean, I won’t ever leave like that, I promise! But please, Mum?”

“Percy,” Ron mouthed to Harry, who nodded in understanding. If the Weasleys had thought Fudge’s admittance of Voldemort’s return would shame Percy into remembering his family, it had done nothing of the sort. Harry had seen him in the background of a picture in the Prophet the other week, and he had been straightening his glasses nervously, paging through his notebook as dutifully as ever.

“All right, Ginny,” Mrs. Weasley said, “if you’ll give up this nonsense about a job.”

“But I want to _help_ ,” Ginny began, and then clamped her mouth shut and sighed. “All right! If I can go!”

“Very well,” Mrs. Weasley conceded, “then it’s nearly time to eat. Ron, Harry, go wash up.”

And that was how they ended up just inside the smoky entrance of a tiny all-ages club in London, Harry straining to hear anything Ron was shouting over the music. Ginny suddenly caught sight of someone and waved wildly until they could all make out Dean Thomas threading his way towards them through the crowd, giving them a wide grin in the pulsing lights. “Hey, Harry,” he yelled, and took Ginny’s hand, bending down to kiss her briefly on the mouth.

Ron looked scandalized. “ _Ginny_ ,” he hissed, glaring at Dean, but the music was too loud for her to hear him, and they disappeared into the crowd. He turned to Harry, gesturing furiously. “Did you see her? She’s only—"

“Fifteen, Ron,” Hermione said. “Which is plenty old to be seeing someone.”

“Not for Ginny!” Ron exclaimed, and then narrowed his eyes at her. “Well, it’s not like _you’re_ going out with anybody,” he said dismissively and prodded Harry on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s not stand around!” Harry thought Hermione might have sniffed loudly at Ron’s comment, but he couldn’t be sure.

By the time they’d reached the bar, Hermione had disappeared somewhere behind them. Harry looked around for her, but Ron only shook his head. “Probably gone off to knit in the loo,” he scoffed. “I told them not to come, didn’t I tell them?” Harry admitted that Ron had indeed told them and took the Butterbeer that Ron handed him, though he wasn’t feeling particularly thirsty. Ron shouted in his ear, very loudly, “Isn’t this great, Harry?”

“Great,” Harry said, who didn’t care if Ron couldn’t hear him. When Ron looked confused, he shouted flatly, “GREAT, I SAID,” and Ron gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up.

Harry looked around him. Further down on the bar, a group of witches were laughing uproariously and drinking from a tray of drinks, which spun wildly. The bartender winked at them and flicked his wand towards their glasses, which roared with flame. One of the witches caught Harry looking and gave him a saucy wink.

The whole thing was quite chaotic. It was overwhelming for Harry, who had limited experience with the real wizarding world, even if he was starting his sixth year at Hogwarts. On the walls, posters for other bands glowed neon and moved wildly, gesturing to guests and dancing up a storm, which gave the strange impression of being surrounded by glowing, gyrating shapes. There was a band playing on a stage, though Harry couldn’t see them very well; all he could make out was the drummer, who seemed to be using enchanted drumsticks, which fizzed out colorful sparks every time he used them. From the way the crowd was reacting, they seemed to be quite popular.

“Hey,” Ron shouted at him, causing Harry to start in surprise and slop Butterbeer all over his hand. “Dean’s dancing with my little sister! Harry, look! He can’t put his hand there! They’re—I’ve got to go straighten him out—"

“Maybe you should just let them alone,” Harry suggested, but Ron wasn’t listening. Aiming to distract him, Harry glanced desperately around the club and was shocked to see a familiar face materializing in the crowd. Grabbing Ron’s elbow, he said urgently, “Hey, isn’t that Tonks?”

Her hair was blue and spiked and she was wearing considerably less than her usual outrageous robes, but there was no mistaking the stocky Auror for anyone else. Ron’s jaw dropped. “But she’s—she knows my dad, nobody who knows my dad should be dressed like—"

For once, Harry was inclined to agree. With the exception of Seamus’s dirty magazines, he’d never seen quite so much skin, especially not on someone he’d seen flinging spells with the best of them. She was dancing with somebody with a shaved head, shimmying in his arms, and something about it seemed so obscene that Harry had to tear his eyes away. When he looked back to Ron, he saw an unfamiliar girl leaning against the bar taking a sip from Ron’s Butterbeer, and Ron making frantic eyes at him that said, in no uncertain terms, _Go away now._

Harry sighed and moved away from Ron, who was nodding enthusiastically to something the girl had said. This was supposed to be fun? He wondered where Hermione had gone and was about to finish his Butterbeer and go find her when he felt a sharp prod on his arm. He spun around, Hermione’s name on his lips, and came face to face with someone decidedly more unpleasant.

“Well, if it isn’t Harry Potter,” Draco Malfoy spat at him, looking as if Christmas had come early. “Aren’t you a little far from home, Potter?”

Harry clenched his jaw. They’d all checked their wands at the door, but there was nothing to prevent him from punching Malfoy if he wanted. Just the minor fact that it would probably get him kicked out at best or, at worst, a lot of publicity. “Malfoy,” he said, tightly. “Why is it that everywhere I go, you seem to follow me? Can’t get enough, can you?”

“I heard about your fat cousin,” Malfoy snarled back. “It seems you just kill _everybody_ , doesn’t it?”

Harry said dangerously, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“On the contrary,” Malfoy hissed. “What is it now, Potter, one a month?”

It took effort not to slam his fist into Malfoy’s pointy face right then and there. Harry settled for demanding, “Keeping a tally, Malfoy? Better hope your dad doesn’t rot in Azkaban before Voldemort comes for him, or that’d make three, wouldn’t it?”

Malfoy looked murderous, but before he could speak, a girl slipped up behind him to put her arms around his shoulders. Harry recognized her as Pansy Parkinson.

“You think quite a lot of yourself, don’t you, Potter?” She glared at him from over Malfoy’s shoulder, dark hair hanging lank around her face. “But it’s only a matter of time and you’re _dead_. Pity you don’t have any family left to cry over your body when it shows up on their doorstep.”

Harry moved closer to them, fists clenched. “Be careful what you say, Parkinson.”

Malfoy, whose eyes were still sharp with fury, sniggered loudly. “Look, Pansy, I think we touched a nerve. What’s the matter, Potter, were you expecting someone else on your stoop? Lost pet, perhaps? Pity he wasn’t wearing a collar.”

“You shut your mouth,” it was Harry’s turn to hiss, breathing hard, “I’ll—"

“I don’t think you will, actually.” Malfoy gave him one last glare before he slid his arm around Pansy’s waist and raised a delicate eyebrow at Harry. “We’re going to dance. It’s a shame you’re so ugly no one will go near you.”

Harry opened his mouth to make some scathing remark about Pansy when someone moved up against him and said, very pointedly, “Oh, Harry, sorry to take so long, but I’m back now. Let’s go dance, shall we?” He turned and got a shocking eyeful of Tonks’s cleavage, but Malfoy and Pansy were both gaping beside him, so he took her offered hand, dazed, and let her pull him into the crowd.

“Tonks,” he managed to say, after a moment, “uh, thanks, but I really don’t think this is a good idea—"

“It’s just a little fun,” she said, eyes twinkling, sliding up to him and putting her arms around his neck.

Harry’s eyes widened. “Yeah, but, see—"

“Come on, don’t you want to show that prat you’re better than he is?”

“ _Tonks_ ,” Harry said urgently, “I don’t know how to dance.” Beside them, Malfoy and Pansy were moving against each other, both of them watching Harry closely.

Tonks laughed. “Oh, that. It’s okay, I’ll show you. Just follow my lead, okay? Do what everybody else is doing. I mean, watch them.” She was pressed up against him and he could see the beads of sweat on her forehead, the flush in her cheeks. “Put your hands on my hips. No, lower. There you go. Now move. Feel the music? Okay, no, like this.” Harry was crimson with embarrassment, but he let her guide him into some sort of motion, keeping his eyes on how Malfoy was bumping up against Pansy. “Yeah,” Tonks said, low in his ear, “relax a little, there you go. You can move closer . . . Harry, I’m not made of _glass_ , come here.”

Pansy was rolling her hips in Malfoy’s hands and sliding up against him, whatever scanty scrap of fabric she was wearing slipping upwards to bare her stomach. Malfoy had his head tilted back, hair damp with sweat and falling in his face, and he was staring right at Harry, as if there were no one else in the club but the two of them.

Harry stared right back, determined somehow to best him. He let Tonks grind up against his leg, one hand clutching at the small of her back, and thought, a little dazedly, that her shirt had no back on it. He could feel the slippery heat of her skin against his palm.

“Good,” Tonks said, in his ear. She was watching Malfoy and Pansy too. Pansy was running her hands up Malfoy’s chest and twining her arms around Malfoy’s neck, and then she leaned up and kissed him, lewd and open-mouthed, still pressing up against him. “Harry,” Tonks whispered, and he had a moment of bewilderment before they were kissing too, her lips soft, her thumbs tucked in the belt loops of his jeans and pulling him closer. It was different than kissing Cho, which was mostly her crying with her lips pressed on his. Tonks was twining her tongue in his mouth and she pulled back to bite softly at his lower lip, his fingers bruising her back, her body small and eager against him.

When Harry pulled away, Malfoy was still staring at him, eyes sharp and dark and furious. Harry felt a little stirring of triumph and, for perhaps the first time that night, smiled.

It was at that moment that he spotted Hermione across the room, lit for a brief second by the lights, looking severely annoyed. “I,” he said, “Tonks, thanks, but I think my friends are—"

Tonks smiled at him, pretty in the darkness, and pulled him closer. “Happy birthday, Harry,” she said, breath tickling his earlobe, and then snaked off without another word into the crowd. Without a backwards look at Malfoy or his partner, Harry made his way to Hermione, who was now standing with Ginny and Dean. She was tapping her foot and said, when he came up to them,

“Where’s Ron gone off to _now_?”

Flustered, Harry tried to manage an excuse, but at that moment, Ron bounded up to them. “Harry!” he exclaimed, latching onto Harry’s shoulder and leaning into him heavily. “Harry, there’s this girl, you’ve got to meet her, she really wants to—Harry, is that lipstick on your face?”

“No,” Harry said guiltily, wiping furiously at his mouth. “Are you drunk?”

“Of course I’m not _drunk_ ,” Ron exclaimed, wavering a bit. “I’ve only had a little bit, you know, I’m very respin—respensi—I’m fine.”

Ginny was stifling laughter and Hermione was frowning sharply. “I think that’s about enough,” Harry said, propping Ron more upright. “Come on, let’s go get our wands, okay?”

“You know,” Ron said to him, leaning on him as they made their way to the door behind two older, lanky wizards, both of whom were wearing leather jackets and wore their hair as long as Ginny’s, “I thought I saw Malfoy here awhile ago. Malfoy!” He laughed and his breath smelled of alcohol. “Funny, huh?”

“Um,” Harry said, “yeah. Funny.”

Ginny kissed Dean goodbye on the corner and they Flooed back to Grimmauld Place from Fred and George’s, Harry hushing Ron all the way from the fireplace up the creaky stairs and into their room. Hermione was ignoring them on purpose and Ginny was trying not to giggle at Ron’s repeated attempts to whisper loudly, “Harry, you have something on your mouth. Harry, were you kissing a girl? Harry, tell me!”

The girls left them on the second landing and Harry practically dragged Ron inside and dumped him on his bed before collapsing exhaustedly on his own and kicking off his trainers. He scarcely had time to process the night before he lay down in his clothes—just for a minute, he’d get up in a minute—and the next thing he knew, he woke up stiff and exhausted. It was still early, by the clock, and he sat up to see what had woken him just as Mrs. Weasley threw open the door.

“RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY,” she screeched, brandishing a newspaper, “I AM SO ASHAMED OF YOU! SNEAKING OUT OF THIS HOUSE, LYING TO YOUR MOTHER, GOING TO DISREPUTABLE PLACES, WHY I OUGHT TO TAKE AWAY YOUR WAND! AND YOU, HARRY POTTER! YOU SHOULD KNOW BETTER! I WILL TOLERATE NO SUCH BEHAVIOR IN THIS HOUSEHOLD!”

“ _Mum_ ,” Ron groaned, hands shielding his face from the light, “what’s going on,” and she threw the newspaper at his head.

“YOU MOST CERTAINLY WILL NOT SET FOOT OUTSIDE THIS HOUSE WITHOUT YOUR MOTHER FOR THE REST OF THIS SUMMER! AND YOU EITHER, GINNY!” she added, at Ginny’s footfall on the stairs, creeping down to see what the commotion was. “IT WILL BE CLEANING EVERY DAY UNTIL SEPTEMBER, AND THIS HOUSE HAD BETTER BE SPOTLESS!”

She disappeared downstairs in a huff and Ginny crept in, hair in a tangle, her nightgown on. “What’s going on?” she asked, sleepily, taking the newspaper from Ron and squinting at it in the faint light. “Oh, for—Harry, look at this.”

He caught it, rubbing his eyes, and peered down at the picture in the corner. A grainy, miniature him was enthusiastically snogging Tonks in the midst of a crowded dance floor. Whoever had printed the picture had circled his forehead with a thick black marker. The caption read enthusiastically: “BOY WHO LIVED: LIVING IT UP? Harry Potter celebrates his sixteenth birthday at a wizarding club in London with unknown witch seen here.” Harry groaned and threw the paper on the ground.

“I think,” Ron said carefully, “I’ve got a hangover.”

"Watch out," Ron managed, between a mouthful of sausage, and Harry ducked just before an owl swooped by his head. It dropped an officially sealed scroll of parchment in the middle of his porridge and landed beside Hermione's plate, flapping its wings agitatedly.

"Ministry owls!" Mrs. Weasley muttered, as Harry gingerly pulled the letter from his breakfast. "I keep telling Arthur, they need to do something about this! It's horrendous, the way they come in dropping things every which way, like regular old pets, they are! The Ministry, of all things! Official business!" She continued muttering as she stalked back to the sink and waved her wand imperiously. The scrubbing brush, which had been leisurely sloshing around the pan, began to spin so vigorously that Harry saw only a soapy blur.

"I reckon she's still a bit upset over last night," Ron muttered to Harry. "Go on, what'd the Ministry send you now? Hope it's not another memo calling you batty, had quite enough of that last year."

Harry unrolled it, attempting to wipe off the worst spots of porridge. "It's from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes,” he said. He scanned the contents, then frowned. "They're just telling me that Dudley died of a heart attack, officially, something about being obese. 'Please refer to page 1669 of the Ministry Handbook for other further explanation?' Page 1669? How'm I supposed to know what that says?"

"Percy'd be all over that," Ginny said conversationally, as she strolled into the kitchen and sat down next to Hermione. "Oh, sorry, Mum."

"Don't 'sorry, Mum' me!" Mrs. Weasley shrilled. "I know just where you were last night, young lady, and I won't be forgetting it!" Her voice turned gentle, for a moment, and she said, "Harry, dear, I'm sorry about your cousin. You'll have to ask Arthur about that when he gets home, I'm sure he can straighten things out." And with that, she continued indignantly, "Now all four of you finish up your breakfast, and we can start to work on the china cabinets. I know for certain there's some silver that needs polishing, Ron, and that wood could use a good dusting!"

"Mum," Ron groaned, "we did the upstairs silver last week!"

"Well, today we're doing the downstairs set! And no magic for you four, either, you are all underage! I'll give you some of Priscilla's Paradise Polish, and that's it. Come along!"

Though he soon sided with Ron in his views of housework, Harry was partially grateful. Mrs. Weasley ordered them about like house elves ("Now you know how it feels, Ron," Hermione said several times, archly), but with no time to sit and mope, he had no time to think about Dudley's untimely fate. In fact, he was so preoccupied with taps that grew fangs to snap at him and mirrors that pulled grotesque faces at him that he almost forgot it was Sirius's house they were cleaning.

"I swear this house is evil," Ron muttered darkly, when a doorknob bit him for the third time in a row. "Maybe Mum has a point in cleaning it out. I'm half afraid the carpet will run off with me the next time I take a step."

"You know, Ron, you're the only one who’s been attacked," Ginny said, though she repented half an hour later, when her hair was caught in a drawer that had shut and then refused to open again. She spent the rest of the afternoon rubbing her scalp after she had finally escaped and, though no apology to Ron was forthcoming, admitted, "I can't blame it, it had to live with all those horrible people for so long. Or maybe they turned out so rotten because they lived here."

"Sirius wasn't rotten," Ron said fiercely. Harry had been in a daze, polishing the silver, and looked up with sudden gratitude. In his concentration, he'd forgot who they were talking about.

"No, but Bellatrix was horrible," Ginny said. "But then, I can't imagine growing up here was very much fun. Sirius was lucky."

"Tonks's mum got out, too," Ron pointed out. "Isn't she married to a Muggleborn wizard? Harry, didn't Sirius tell you that?"

But Harry was too busy flushing at the mention of Tonks to answer properly, and he busied himself in the silver. Ron appealed to Hermione.

"Come on, Herm, you read enough history that you've got to know every family lineage from here to the fourteen hundreds. Isn't she?"

"Look it up yourself," Hermione snapped. "I'm not speaking to you."

Ron looked flustered. "But—why?"

Hermione refused to answer him, nor would she look at Harry, though later she was whispering furiously with Ginny. Ron was nonplussed, though Harry thought he had an idea what it was all about.

"You were rather awful, last night," Ginny confided to both of them, under the guise of helping them clean the cobwebs from the corners of the room. A spider scuttled across the wall, and Ron had to suppress a squeak of terror. "Oh, don't be a baby. Anyway, you did just leave her there, you know. Luckily she—"

"I told her not to come," Ron said, indignantly, interrupting his sister.

"As if you can tell me what I should or should not do, Ron Weasley," Hermione said from across the room, having heard him. "I had a fine time, for your information, though it was no thanks to you."

"I was going to look for you," Harry offered uncomfortably. All this talk of the previous night was making him uneasy.

Hermione scrubbed furiously at the mirror she was cleaning. Her reflection rippled as the surface bucked under her rag. "Oh, well, that's all right, Harry," she said distractedly, and glared at Ron again before turning back to her work.

"Mental," Ron muttered to Harry. Just then, another spider crawled down the wall, and he leapt back.

"Serves you right," Ginny said, tossing her rag at him. "I'm going to help Hermione."

Ron rolled his eyes at Harry. " _Girls_ ," he said. Harry tried with great difficulty not to flush at the memory of what exactly had happened to him last night, and the way Tonks had slid up against him, fluid as water. Her skin had felt so hot against his palm, and the way she'd looked up at him, eyes glittering . . .

"You all right there, mate?" Ron asked.

Harry swallowed. "Just um, Sirius," he muttered, at which a wave of guilt overwhelmed him. Here he was getting red in the face over Tonks, and what's more, using Sirius as an excuse to cover up his embarrassment, and he was forgetting why they were cleaning the room in the first place. If not for the events in June, Sirius might be there with them, telling them wicked stories about his own encounters with girls while Hermione looked scandalized.

"Oh," Ron said uncomfortably. "Yeah, I forgot."

Harry hated himself, then, for throwing it in Ron's face, when he hadn’t remembered either. I'm sorry, Sirius, he thought fiercely, and spent the next ten minutes meditating so determinedly on Sirius's absence that a telltale lump formed in his throat. What was it Malfoy had said to him? _What is it now, one a month?_ He swallowed hard. How dare he? Who was Malfoy to say? There he was, distracting Harry, making him focus on dancing and Tonks and the way he'd looked in the pulsing lights, pale and thin and glistening with a sheen of sweat, his gazed fixed furiously on Harry . . .

It wasn't right, Harry thought angrily, for him to get so preoccupied. First Sirius, and then Dudley. Before he knew it, it would be Ron, or Ginny, or Hermione . . .

"Hey," Ron said, tentatively, nudging Harry in the shoulder. He looked almost afraid to disturb him. "Mum says it's nearly dinnertime, if you're, uh, done with that fork there."

Harry realized he'd been polishing the same fork over and over, until its tines sparkled. "Thanks," he said, setting it back in its case. He gave one last look at the silver, and then followed Ron into the hall.

The remainder of the summer passed without further excitement, the greatest agitation being the flurry of Doxies that had re-colonized the curtains, and the heat wave slowly subsided into hints of autumn coming, crickets all night during their weekend at the Burrow, some night breezes propelling the windows shut. Hermione managed to ignore Ron for five days, during which she furiously knitted eleven hats, and then for no visible reason gave him a sudden embarrassed hug after he got his OWLs and began talking to him again.

“She’s crazy, Harry,” Ron told him, on the side, “just crazy,” and Harry professed not to understand it either. He still had not told Ron about Tonks.

It was a bit like a secret—except one that Malfoy and Pansy also kept—and he carried it around with him like some sort of comfort, something of his own. He thought about it late at night, hands folded behind his head, and recalled the hot smoothness of Tonks’s skin against his palm, the shimmy of Pansy’s hips up against her partner. He drew the line at wanking over the memory, because of Malfoy’s involvement, and that was too close to wanking over Malfoy, which he refused to think about. This meant that most of his fantasies involved faceless, featureless girls who morphed inevitably into Tonks, but if her eyes were usually unsettlingly gray, Harry never acknowledged the fact.

On the first of September, Harry boarded the train at King’s Cross with Ginny, waving as Hermione and Ron disappeared off—with much grumbling on Ron’s part—to the Prefects’ car. Harry had all but forgotten Dudley’s death. The month filled with housework had pushed blocks of time between him and his aunt and uncle, and his thoughts were more likely to settle on Sirius than his deceased cousin. Even that had dulled, however, by the time he bid farewell to his room at 12 Grimmauld Place; he had cried, a few nights running, after dusting Sirius’s former room for Mrs. Weasley, and he still felt sudden pangs that stopped his lungs from working when he thought about his godfather’s arcing fall, but Sirius’s name on his lips was routine enough, now, and he stopped taking the long way to the kitchen so as to avoid the tapestry of Black lineage.

Lupin had taken him to see Sirius’s motorbike, one stifling afternoon during which Ginny and Ron bickered for three hours straight, and he had run a finger across the seat, blowing at the dust he picked up. “Molly won’t want you riding it for a few years anyway,” Lupin said, his smile slipping around the edges, loose. “But you should know it’s yours.”

“Sirius always said he would take me for a ride when his name was cleared.”

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Lupin had told him, looking gray and faded in the dusty shadows. Quiet. “He would have loved that.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, and it hurt a little, but he swallowed and didn’t cry. “Yeah.”

Now, listening to the last whistle of the train as he bumped his way into a compartment, he wished Professor Lupin were coming with them back to Hogwarts. He would have felt safer, and he’d grown used to Lupin’s often silent presence at the House of Black, reading a book in the corner of the kitchen over tea or distracting Ginny before her temper could escalate into a full-blown snapping match with her brother. He was like the antithesis of Molly Weasley, and a welcome change. Harry’d even begun to think Hermione had a secret crush on him.

“Oh, come on, Crookshanks,” Ginny was muttering. “Pig! Stop twittering, Crookshanks is not going to eat you! Oh!” It was with relief she stumbled into the compartment and nearly crashed into her boyfriend. “Dean, take him, will you?”

“What?” said Dean, but couldn’t protest further, as he found himself with an armful of annoyed cat. Crookshanks scrambled to escape and left one long red welt on his arm. It oozed a couple drops of blood just as Crookshanks leapt across the compartment and curled up by the window, sulking.

“Oh, Dean, I’m so sorry,” Ginny exclaimed, dropping Pig’s cage and sinking onto the seat beside him. “Let me see. Ouch. Here, come to the loo, I’ve got some salve.”

Dean followed her out, leaving Harry to the empty compartment and Ron’s squawking owl. He had scarcely shut his eyes when the door flew open again. He knew before he looked up that it wasn’t Ginny or Dean returning, nor was it Ron or Hermione.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, resigned. “What do you want?”

The blonde was grinning wickedly. “Why, haven’t you heard about the new Dark Arts professor, Potter? Pity you haven’t got connections on the board.”

“Yeah, well, my dad’s not in Azkaban, either,” Harry retorted.

Immediately, Malfoy reddened with rage. “At least my father’s not feeding worms!”

“My father was ten times the wizard yours ever could be,” Harry said, fast, and it was only then that he realized that he’d leapt to his feet, forgetting his vow to not let Malfoy provoke him. “Worms wouldn’t _touch_ your dad.”

“You watch it, Potter, just you wait—"

“Oh,” Harry said, taking a breath, “wait for what, your goons to catch up to you? Give me a real pounding, won’t they? I don’t have to remind you just how you arrived to King’s Cross at the end of the year last year, do I?”

“I’ll show you,” Malfoy hissed, his face red and sharp. “You’ll get yours, Potter.” And turning away, he added venomously, “Say hello to the new professor for me, won’t you?”

Harry had scarcely dared to hope it was Lupin when Ron came barging through the door, panting. “Harry,” he exclaimed, pausing for breath, “would you believe it? Herm’s staying in the Prefects Car so she can talk about her bloody OWLs with Goldstein! Says she met him when we were at that sodding club. I didn’t see her with anybody, did you?”

“Ron, no offense, but neither of us were really paying much attention.”

As if in response, Ron flung himself on the seat. “Next thing you know she’ll be turning into a Ravenclaw,” he muttered. “Hey, did I just see Malfoy leaving?”

“Same old stuff,” Harry said, evasive.

“Did you hex him?”

“Did he look hexed?”

“Well, no. But you should have,” Ron concluded judiciously. “Anyway, Dad says the Malfoys are getting a bad deal of it, with Mr. Malfoy in Azkaban. Says the Ministry froze most of his bank accounts on suspicions and they’ve already searched Malfoy’s house at least twice.” He was looking gleeful. “Serves him right, I say.”

Ginny and Dean came back then, and Ron’s full attention was absorbed by watching Dean with suspicion, so Harry didn’t think of it again until he stepped into the Great Hall and saw Malfoy at the Slytherin table, reclined like a king. From the way he was smirking and carrying on, he certainly didn’t look like somebody who’d been having a “bad deal of it.” In fact, apart from his grossly exaggerated injuries, Harry had never seen him suffering in his life.

“Hiya, Harry,” Colin Creevey said just then and dragged Harry back to the present. He half-smiled at Colin and his brother Dennis and sat down in the nearest chair next to Ron, who was trading completely made up stories with Seamus about his summer exploits. Harry felt a twinge of guilt at keeping the Tonks experience to himself, but before he could dwell on it, Hermione slid into the seat beside him.

“Harry,” she exclaimed, a bit breathless. “Did you know there’s a _library_ in the Ravenclaw Tower? Of course, it’s not anything in comparison to the real library, but they’ve a whole room of books, and there’s this one I’ve been looking for on Artemisia Lufkin, I’ve been looking for ages. It’s fantastic. Anthony was just showing me.”

“Oh,” Harry said. He tried to sound cold out of loyalty to Ron. “That’s nice.”

“Isn’t it?” Hermione continued on. She didn’t seem to notice his tone. “Anthony got eleven OWLs. Nearly twelve, but he studied the wrong chapters in Ancient Runes. He told me we ought to study together sometime.”

“So you won’t go out with anyone who’s got less than eleven OWLs, is that it?”

“Of course I’d never think a thing like that,” Hermione said sharply. “Harry, why would you say that? Anthony and I are just friends. He’s very smart. Don’t you like him? He was in the DA, you know, he really thinks a lot of you.”

“That’s—" Harry began, but she interrupted him.

“Oh, and do you know what else Anthony told me? He was talking to Padma about the new Dark Arts professor, and can you believe it? It’s Tonks!”

“That’s nice,” Harry said, as flatly as he had before, and then it dawned on him. “Wait, what did you say?”

“Tonks,” Hermione told him patiently, “is the new Dark Arts professor. Aren’t you relieved? After Umbridge, I was so worried! But Dumbledore knows what he’s doing. Now we won’t have to have the DA in secret and the Ministry won’t be issuing all these horrible edicts and we’ll . . .” She continued on, heedless of the fact that he had half-turned to look at the Slytherin table. From there, his eyes slipped to the table of professors and, sure enough, Tonks was perched on her chair, attempting to look interested in whatever Professor Flitwick was saying. Her hair was a shocking shade of pink and hung straight down from beneath her hat, curling a little behind her ears.

 _Say hello to the new professor for me_.

Harry swallowed.

“Hey,” Ron said, from the other side of him, suddenly, “Harry, hey, isn’t that Tonks up there? What’s she doing here?”

“ _Professor_ Tonks is going to be the new Dark Arts professor,” Hermione answered. “I’ve just been telling Harry about it. Anthony said—"

Ron looked scornful at the mention of Anthony. “Did Harry tell you, we saw her on Harry’s birthday, she was dancing with—"

“I don’t know,” Harry said quickly. At least the picture in the paper had been grainy and Tonks had had her back to the camera; it was difficult even for Harry to recognize her, and he was fairly sure no one else had. No one but Malfoy, that is. “It could have been somebody else, Ron.”

“Well, I certainly hope so,” Hermione sniffed. “I shouldn’t think any professor at Hogwarts should be seen at such a place.”

“Well, your precious Anthony was there, wasn’t he now?” Ron began to say, but Dumbledore stood at that moment, and he quieted rapidly before his voice could carry to the Ravenclaws.

Harry studied Tonks all through the Sorting and Dumbledore’s brief welcome. He watched her smile secretly at something Professor Sprout said, touch her hair thoughtfully, clap dutifully at every new first year. She was quite possibly the youngest professor Hogwarts had seen in decades, and—perhaps with the exception of Professor Trelawney—certainly the most eccentric. And at that moment, just as Dumbledore clapped his hands for the food and the Great Hall filled with hubbub and the chaos of passing dishes, she looked directly at Harry and smiled.

“The Slytherins are really in for something, I reckon,” Ron said with a mouthful of food. Several crumbs flew at Harry as he spoke, and Hermione made a face beside him. “Tonks likes us all right, I bet she’ll really favor us! Serves ‘em right, they’ve got Snape on their side.”

“You can’t really be advocating professors playing favorites!” Hermione said, appalled. She tore a bit of roll off and ate it primly. “We’re Gryffindors, Ron!”

“Yeah, and old McGonagall’s done nothing for us,” Ron argued back. Across the table, Seamus nodded emphatically, mouth too full to speak up. “At least Tonks won’t call Harry a liar and a fake or report us for trying to learn!”

Hermione had to agree with this, though she added cautiously, “Do you think Tonks is really qualified, though? I know she’s an Auror, but she's so young, and she does seem a bit . . . _messy_ , doesn’t she?”

“Hermione,” Ron said, actually putting down his fork for a moment, “who’d you rather have, Tonks or Umbridge? Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

For Harry’s part, he concentrated wholly on his plate, unable to look up to his left and meet Tonks’s eyes. He could not forget her presence, however; down the table, he heard some fourth years discussing her eagerly. Apparently rumors had already begun circulating, and her status as a Metamorphmagus was the least of it. When he heard one boy loudly claim he’d seen her in _BARED_ , a porn magazine that catered largely to werewolves, Harry choked and had to be thumped on the back by Ron.

“Got to pace yourself, mate,” Ron advised.

“Right,” Harry said. His eyes were watering.

To Harry’s discomfort, Tonks wasn’t the only subject of the rumors fiercely circulating. More than one first year pointed at him and whispered as the night wore on, and he distinctly heard the words “You-Know-Who” passed dramatically along the benches. By the time students began streaming for the entrances, he was more than tired of the fearful awe their gazes all carried. And, to his acute embarrassment, this fearful awe changed to awe and jealousy when Tonks happened to pass him on their way to the exit.

“Wotcher, Harry!” She grinned over at him and, probably noting the redness in his cheeks, winked at him. Instantly, the fifth-year boys behind him began to whisper. Ron prodded him in the side with his elbow. Harry felt his face burning inexplicably. If he was this miserable now, how could he possibly sit through Defense Against the Dark Arts every day? He’d likely go mad.

It was then that Harry chanced to look up and saw that someone else had noticed Tonks’s attention as well. Across the crowd, Malfoy’s eyes were sharp and slitted, and he looked furious.

Harry turned away smiling. Perhaps it would not be such a bad year after all.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry had hoped to put off his first class with Tonks for as long as possible, so his appetite waned significantly when he scanned his schedule and discovered that Defense Against The Dark Arts was the first thing that morning. Ron, who was shoveling in porridge to Harry’s left, showed no such trepidation.

“With some of Slytherin, I’ll reckon!” he exclaimed, between mouthfuls. “Just wait’ll Tonks puts them in their places!”

“But that’s not proper, Ron,” Hermione admonished. Whether she was referring to Ron’s eating habits or Tonks’s favoritism, Harry couldn’t be sure. “Anyhow, Harry, aren’t you worried about the Slytherins?”

“What,” he said, “Malfoy?”

“Oh, not _him_. I meant about the DA. Some of us can already produce Patronuses. We did all kinds of defense spells last year. They’ll be so far behind, won’t they hold us back?”

Ron’s grin burst into full bloom. “Maybe I’ll get to hex Malfoy,” he said, sunning in the very thought of it. “See how _he_ likes barfing up slugs for hours in a bucket. I’ll really get him this time.”

“You going to keep on with the DA?” Dean asked from across the table. He was eating with his left hand only, and Harry strongly suspected he was holding Ginny’s hand with his right. “Now that things have gone public, there might be more members still.”

Seamus piped up also, having gained enthusiasm since the few meetings he had attended, to say he still had his Galleon. Several others at the table nodded to say they had also kept it.

“I don’t know,” Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck thoughtfully. “I suppose it depends how today’s lesson goes.”

“Speaking of today’s lesson, we don’t want to be late.” Hermione stood up and smoothed her skirt. “Come on, we might be able to speak to Tonks before class starts!”

Harry wanted to point out that he had no desire to speak to Tonks in front of anyone else, before he could warn her not to say a word about his birthday, but Hermione was already hurrying off. Luckily, the strap of Ron’s bag snapped halfway there and all his books tumbled to the ground, so they arrived just before the bell and had no time to wave at Tonks, much less speak to her. Harry hid his relief and glanced around the classroom, which was buzzing with whispers. For her part, Tonks was provoking as many rumors as she could. Her hair today was still fluorescent pink, and she had several silver bracelets clinking around her wrist. She looked younger than ever, and rather than sit at the teacher’s desk, she was perched atop it.

The students eventually quieted, more out of curiosity than respect. The classroom maintained its silence for a brief moment, and then Tonks swung her legs up beneath her and crossed them, Indian style. “Hem, hem,” she said, sounding exactly like Professor Umbridge, and then laughed at the startled and horrified looks on many faces. Her laughter was a shock itself in the quiet classroom, before a few people began cracking smiles. “I’m Tonks,” she greeted them, but no sooner had she spoken that Blaise Zabini raised his hand.

“Is it true you’re an Auror?” he asked, more than a little belligerent skepticism in his tone.

“Have been for a couple of years, yeah,” Tonks said, shrugging. “Got tired of the food at the Ministry, though.” She gave them a grin. “Not to worry, not everybody from the Ministry’s like your last professor. Or the fake Mad-Eye.”

Several students were already goggling at her reference to Moody as “Mad-Eye,” while some others were still stuck on the shocking color of her hair. Seamus raised his hand next. “Professor Tonks?”

Tonks made a face. “Professor Tonks is my aunt. Tonks, please, unless Professor McGonagall’s around. What is it?”

“Are you really a Metamorphmagus, too?”

Tonks did not answer, but she screwed up her face, and a moment later, her pink hair withdrew to shoulder-length and became jet black. “What d’you think?” she asked, enjoying all of their gaping faces. Ron was grinning openly, and even Hermione seemed to be warming up to the prospect of Tonks as their professor. “I know, I know, black’s not really my color. Violet? Green?” She squeezed her eyes shut again, and a moment later, her hair turned a very pale blonde. Pansy Parkinson started laughing shrilly.

“You look like Draco’s mum,” she giggled, unable to stop even when Malfoy glared balefully at her. “What? She does!”

Rather than respond, Tonks slid off the desk and stood there, hands on her hips. “I get the idea you’ve had quite a variety of professors in the past years,” she said, “some of them awful. I know all of you passed your OWLs last year, but some of you—" Harry colored as her eyes passed over him—“are leaps ahead of others, so I’d like a general idea of how much you know. Why don’t you all partner up and we’ll do some demonstrations.”

Harry noticed, as he partnered up with Ron, that she swiftly changed her hair coloring back to pink. He doubted that Tonks, the daughter of Andromeda, would be thrilled about looking like Narcissa Malfoy.

“This is brilliant,” Ron was saying. “No ‘Wands away’ from Tonks!” She seemed to have heard him, because she gave him a quick smile from where she stood, and he flashed one back. “You see that, mate? She’ll be on your side for sure.”

“Yeah,” Harry said absently, pulling out his wand. Glancing around the classroom, he saw former DA members settling into dueling stances, looking confident. He felt an odd surge of pride. Across the room, Ernie Macmillan gave him a friendly smile.

“We’ll start out rather simply,” Tonks said, drawing Harry’s attention back to the front of the room. “I want you all to cast a simple jinx on your partner—nothing advanced, mind you—and he or she will block it. Use any method you want, even _Expelliarmus_.” She saw Zacharias Smith giving her a look akin to skeptical disgust, and she said cheerfully, “Got to start somewhere, don’t we?”

Ron rolled his eyes at Harry. “You want to go first?”

Harry shrugged. “Sure.” He raised his wand and waited, as beside him, Hermione skillfully blocked a hex from Anthony Goldstein. But just as Ron was opening his mouth, a loud crash came from the other side of the room. Everyone whirled around.

Blaise Zabini was standing above Draco Malfoy, wand extended, his expression stranded somewhere between horror and laughter. Blasted by Blaise’s spell, Malfoy had crashed to the floor and taken the chair behind him with him. Faced with the class’s sudden attention, he clambered to his feet, pink with embarrassment.

“What are you staring at, Weasley?” he snapped, brushing off his robes with an angry look.

“Oh, Draco,” Pansy simpered beside him, “are you all right?” Malfoy shook her off as Tonks approached him. Tonks waved the rest of them to go back to practicing, but Harry and Ron watched for several seconds longer, and Harry could have sworn there was a telltale curve of Tonks’s lips that betrayed her amusement at Malfoy’s incompetence.

“Malfoy,” Ron said, speaking slowly as if to draw out the moment, “just failed to cast a simple blocking spell. In front of everyone. Ha ha, Harry, did you see his face?”

Harry had to chuckle along with Ron. It served him right, after all; when it came down to it, Malfoy was nothing but talk. “Come on, Ron, let’s get back to it.”

By the end of class, Tonks had started them on Stunning, conjuring several pillows to cushion their falls. Harry was paying more attention to Ron’s ability to revive him than anyone else’s, but when he sat up for the second time, he heard Pansy’s shrill voice exclaiming hysterically, “Professor, it’s not working! Why isn’t it working?” Ron snickered and stuck out a hand to help him up.

“Might as well just leave Malfoy like that,” he muttered, stepping back so Harry could Stun him. “Do us all a favor.”

But just then, the class ended, and Hermione came over to Harry and Ron, frowning. “You can laugh at Malfoy now,” she said, “but Harry, we’ve got Potions next.” At her words, Harry’s stomach sank, and he looked at Ron desperately. Ron laughed.

“Don’t look at me for help, mate,” he said, “I only got an A on my Potions OWL. You can partner with Herm, though, right?”

“Well, I—" Hermione faltered, looking uncertain. “I told Anthony I’d partner with him when he asked me. I’d forgotten Ron wouldn’t be there,” she explained, seeing Harry’s panicked expression. “Oh, Harry, you can work with somebody else, don’t look at me like that!”

“I suppose,” Harry muttered, his good mood evaporating at the thought of Potions. If Defense Against the Dark Arts had gone as well as expected, it only made sense for Potions to be a disaster. Shouldering his bag, he followed Hermione from the class room. “Come on. We might as well get it over with.”

Harry ended up seated beside Lisa Turpin, a tidy, brown-haired girl who gave him an appraising look when he sat down. She’d walked in with Anthony, and Harry supposed Hermione had asked her to partner with him. He was too busy to mind, however; glancing around the classroom, he found that the class, already small, was over half Slytherin. Across the aisle, Malfoy leaned over to Blaise and whispered loudly, “ _Potter_ made it into this class?” Blaise laughed, and Harry glared at both of them.

Just then, Lisa nudged him in the arm, and he turned back to the front, just as Snape strode in. He looked out at them, the small cluster of thirteen or so students, and scowled. Only when he’d set down all his materials and stepped around to the front of the desk did he finally speak.

"Well, well," Snape intoned, folding his arms, glaring as sourly as Harry expected. "You are the incompetent idiots who managed to fail your OWLs so spectacularly, I see. I typically only accept those students proficient enough to receive an O. Without the Headmaster’s intervention, none of you would have the privilege of attending.” It seemed that his eyes bored right into Harry.

“Professor,” Malfoy said, raising his hand leisurely. “Not all of us did abysmally on our OWLs.”

Snape pressed his lips together. “Yes, well, apart from two or three of you, the rest of you are complete disappointments. And don’t think this ineptitude means that I will go easy on you. I expect perfection from every one of you, or it is completely within my jurisdiction to remove you from my class.”

His eyes swept across the classroom and landed, furious, on Harry. “Potter,” he barked. “How many Jobberknoll feathers are required for Veritaserum?”

Harry swallowed. Had they even studied Veritaserum ingredients? All he could recall in a desperate attempt to come up with an answer was Snape telling them it was NEWT level. “I don’t know.”

“What was that, Potter?”

He gritted his teeth. He had expected Snape to pick on him; after all, he doubted Snape hated any other student as much as he hated Harry. But he was willing to bet that, aside from Hermione, no one else knew the answer, either. “I don’t know,” he said again, more belligerently.

“Oh?” Snape said, advancing on Harry. “What _do_ you know, Potter? Do you know how many days a Mandrake restorative draft must simmer? Or exactly what shade a Swelling Solution must be before stirring? Don’t remember? Think hard, Potter, we learned this in _second_ year, or were you too busy posing with Lockhart?”

“Gee, I still don’t know,” Harry said, glaring back at him defiantly. “Why don’t you ask Malfoy, he looks about to burst if he doesn’t tell you the answer.”

“Perhaps,” Snape hissed, his eyes glittering dangerously, “you do not belong in a NEWT level course, Potter.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Harry shot back, his temper flaring. He knew he’d only got an E on his Potions OWL, but he’d worked hard for it, and he would bet that even the Slytherins hadn’t _all_ got O’s.

“You are here,” Snape said, his words careful, “because of a special exception from the Headmaster, and that is the only reason.” He scowled down at Harry. “There you have it, Potter: an exception made for you. Again.”

“I’m not the only one!” Harry retorted, aware that across the room, Malfoy was sniggering at the news that he’d needed Dumbledore’s help just to get in the class. “You just said it yourself, we’re all incompetent failures.”

Snape stared at him and then said in an even tone, “Ten points from Gryffindor for three incorrect answers, Potter. And, I think, ten points for calling the rest of the class incompetent.”

“But you just—" Harry began hotly, when Lisa stomped on his foot to shut him up.

“I will speak with you after class, Potter,” Snape added, giving him one last dark look before sweeping away down the aisle. “The rest of you, open your books to Chapter Four. I expect you to have read . . .”

While he spoke, Harry turned to glare at Lisa. She stared back at him.

“You can lose all the points for Gryffindor you want, Potter,” she whispered, “but don’t you dare provoke him when I’m your partner.”

“I,” Harry said, “it’s just—"

“You can’t control your temper, yes, I’ve heard,” Lisa said dryly. “Do give it a try; I’d rather not fail Potions because of you, thanks. Now, be quiet, I need to take notes.”

Harry ruefully watched her begin writing, unsure whether he liked her or hated her. But by the end of the class, she clapped him on the shoulder after sticking her notes in her bag and said, deadpan, “Cheer up, Potter, I didn’t get an O either.” By the time he looked up at her, she was halfway to the door.

“Lisa’s a bit odd,” he muttered to Hermione when she stopped beside his desk.

“Oh, Harry, she’s very nice once you get to know her,” Hermione assured him, picking up his bag and handing it to him. “Come on, you’ve got to talk to Snape, remember?”

“Probably needs remedial Potions already,” Malfoy muttered audibly as he passed; he and the other Slytherins only snickered when Harry scowled. In struggling to pay attention to Snape’s lecture, he had forgotten that he was supposed to speak to Snape.

“Shall I wait outside?”

He shrugged at Hermione. “Go on ahead and find Ron, I’ll meet you.”

Hermione left the room behind Malfoy, and Harry approached Snape’s desk with reluctance. Snape did not look up.

“You wanted to see me?” Harry said, rather rudely.

Snape lifted his head and stared at him for a moment without answering; then, pushing back his chair, in one fluid motion he stood, pointed his wand at Harry, and said with a flourish, “ _Legilimens_!”

Caught entirely unprepared, wand still in his pocket, Harry’s mind swam. His thoughts raced with images, flashing by him . . . he was in the hall of the house on Privet Drive and Dudley was shoving him backwards . . . he was at the club in Diagon Alley and Malfoy was sneering at him . . . the Knight Bus was pulling up beside him . . . Tonks was grinding up against him in a blur of neon shapes and pulsing lights . . . Sirius’s laughter was fading to shock as he arced backwards, out of sight . . .

“NO,” Harry yelled. He was leaning hard on Snape’s desk, but he had his wand in his hand, and Snape was rubbing his shoulder.

“You must learn to control your emotions,” Snape said, as coolly as ever, staring down at Harry.

Harry shoved to his feet. “Well, I’m finding it a bit hard to do that when people’ve just _died_ ,” he snarled.

“I see you are as mannerless as ever,” Snape hissed. “Need I remind you that I am to be addressed as ‘sir’ or ‘Professor’ at all times?”

“Sirius just died, _Professor_ ,” Harry bit out.

Snape eyed him coldly. “There is a time and place for everything, Potter, and when we are practicing, I told you to _clear your mind_. If I am to waste my time attempting to school you in Occlumency, you will practice emptying your mind of emotion. Unless, of course,” and his eyes glittered, “you want to join your godfather in the ranks of the dead.”

“Don’t you talk about Sirius that way!” Harry shouted.

“In my own rooms, on my own time, I will talk about Black however I wish,” Snape snapped. “We will meet on Thursday evenings, Potter, at six o’ clock exactly. I expect you won’t be late.”

“No,” Harry scowled.

“No, what?”

“No, sir,” Harry muttered, glaring at him, and stomped his way out of the classroom.

Despite a string of miserable Potions classes, the first weeks of the term flew by, so that by the time that autumn settled in with a vengeance and the grass on the Quidditch pitch during morning practices was stiff with frost, Harry had filed Dudley into the same category of Cedric, that of nightmares and late-night guilt, but little else. He sent a letter by Muggle post to his aunt and uncle, but he’d got no response, and he hadn’t really expected one.

The first Hogsmeade weekend dawned chilly and bright, the sun high and gold by breakfast. When Harry reached the table, Ron was ripping savagely at his piece of toast, scowling. “Not bloody fair,” he muttered, “never asked to be a Prefect, nobody said I’d have to do _this_ —"

“What’s going on?” Harry sat down, looking curiously at Hermione. She was flipping through a thin manual on Apparation that she had received shortly before her birthday, but glanced up when Harry spoke.

“Professor McGonagall, considering the safety of students off school grounds, decided it would be a good idea to split the third-years into groups and have each Prefect take them to Hogsmeade for the first weekend, as they haven’t ever been,” Hermione explained. “Oh, Ron, it’s not so bad. Isn’t everyone’s safety more important than a little fun?”

“Oh, you should talk,” Ron snapped back, “you and your precious Anthony are taking them to Scrivenshaft’s, aren’t you?”

“They’ve the best quills,” Hermione responded primly. “Anthony’s got this lovely one that never runs out of ink. I shouldn’t think I have enough money to buy that one, though.”

“Well, you can take them to Zonko’s,” Harry suggested, “right?”

“Oh, no, that’s not the worst of it, Harry,” Ron said darkly. “We split up, you see? McGonagall’s gone off her rocker, thinks we should work with _Slytherins_.”

“She’s only taking the Sorting Hat’s warning from last year to heed,” Hermione said. “Each prefect takes part of their house’s third years, Harry, and works with a prefect from another house. Anthony and I are together. So’re Ron and Pansy.”

“Pansy Parkinson?” Harry said, immediately getting an unwanted mental image of her, slippery against Malfoy’s body.

Ron looked grimly at his plate. “Is there any other?”

“Who’s Malfoy’s partner?”

Ron gave him an odd look, but Hermione only took a sip of her orange juice and said, “I don’t know, actually. Padma, maybe. Yes, that’s right, she said she wasn’t looking forward to the weekend.”

“If you’re so thick with the Ravenclaws, why don’t you just move into _their_ House,” Ron muttered, but Hermione didn’t hear him. She finished her juice, smiled, and stood up.

“Come on, Ron, we don’t want to be late. Professor McGonagall says we’re to meet the third-years at the front doors. Sorry, Harry. We’ll see you there, I’m sure.”

Ron gave Harry a look that distinctly said he would rather spend the day with Harry, but slumped off after Hermione, looking as if he’d just lost a Quidditch match for the whole Gryffindor team. Harry had to smile.

“You can come with me and Dean,” Ginny offered, at his elbow. “Or,” cheekily, “it looks as if Lavender and Parvati are going, you could walk with them.”

Harry glanced at Lavender and Parvati, who were whispering over a magazine under the table. “I’ll come with you,” he said, to which Ginny giggled. He wasn’t sure if he liked this Ginny better; old Ginny might have blushed and looked away, while this Ginny would probably be just as likely to plant a frog in his bed. Or tease him about Parvati. His face suddenly burned with the thought of Ginny knowing about Tonks.

“You’re flushing, Harry,” Ginny teased him. “Look, Dean. I think he’s got a crush on Lav.”

Dean grinned at Harry. “Lav’s going out with some bloke from Hufflepuff, I think he’s a seventh year,” he said. “And Gin, leave him alone. He’s probably got better things to think about. Like the way Professor Tonks winks at him every time she sees him.”

Harry’s gratitude turned swiftly to embarrassment, especially as Ginny laughed harder. “Come on, Harry,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. “We don’t want to be late to Hogsmeade. Besides, Hermione said all the professors have to be there, for security’s sake. Maybe you can buy Tonks a drink.”

“I bet she winks at you, too,” Harry said sourly, but he followed them out of the castle, glad when Ginny’s attention turned to Seamus, who was waiting for them halfway to Hogsmeade. He, at least, gave back as good as he got.

Hermione had been right about security precautions, in any case; when they entered Hogsmeade, they passed by the disdainful presence of Professor Snape, hovering awkwardly around the milling students. And, just as he spotted Ron’s head towering above his gaggle of third-years, Harry also glimpsed a familiar cat vanishing into the crowd. McGonagall, he’d bet, keeping an eye out where she could.

He left Ginny, Dean, and Seamus at the entrance to Zonko’s—“Fred and George’s is _loads_ better,” said Ginny scornfully—and leaned into the Three Broomsticks, but the only person he knew in there was Luna, alone in the corner looking dreamy and stirring her drink. As he was leaving, Terry Boot and Michael Corner jostled past him, and Terry nudged him hello on the shoulder, but he wasn’t in the mood for talking to them, either.

Even if he had been looking around for Tonks, he didn’t see her. Maybe she’d changed her appearance on purpose, he thought, which didn’t help at all. But then, he wasn’t supposed to be searching the crowds for his professor, of all things, and Tonks had a job to do.

Bored, Harry found himself doing the same as the professors, scanning the streets for danger of any sort. He passed McGonagall, once, perched on a windowsill, but he wasn’t sure if it was her, and even if it were, he’d feel silly talking to a cat. He settled for giving it a knowing look, hoping that no one caught him making faces at it.

His wandering eventually brought him to Scrivenshaft’s, and remembering that Hermione planned to visit, he climbed the stone steps and pushed into the shop, letting the smooth, heavy door click shut behind him. A tiny bell rang above his head, and he thought he heard the low burble of some kind of bird from the back of the shop. Everything was old wood and dust. He could see immediately why Hermione liked it; after all, the shop felt just like a library.

Harry passed the small selection of books and the rows of quills twice without seeing Hermione. Next was a long aisle of parchment, of all colors and sorts, and he was fingering the edible stuff with curiosity when he heard a shrill, familiar voice from the front of the shop. Unable to leave well enough alone, he moved towards the door.

“. . . and you _dare_ suggest that I, a _Malfoy_ , would be in bad credit?” Malfoy was hissing, one fist clenched at his side. “I told you to put it on my father’s bill, you simpleton, is that so difficult to understand?”

The store owner was a tall, thin man, his nose like a beak. He looked very nervous and twitched as he said, “Now, Mr. Malfoy, I’m very sorry, but we just cannot accommodate—"

“My father is Lucius Malfoy,” Malfoy shouted, “you will damn well accommodate anything I choose to ask of you!”

“I’m afraid,” the tall, thin man said, jumpily, “I just can’t do that. You, ah, seem like a nice enough young man, I would help you if I could. But The Ministry sent out a very specific memo, it’s very clear, I could show you—"

“I don’t want to see it!” Malfoy snapped, mouth taut and pale. “Well, fine! I shall just pay you next month. I’ll even owl the money to you, if you like.” His words were sharp and low, as if it pained him to even say them.

“Well, now,” said the owner, “you see, we just don’t do purchases on credit. Caused us quite some trouble years ago, so we stopped altogether. We do, ah, do orders, if you’d like to owl an order with the payment, and _then_ we—"

“I won’t be ordering anything,” Malfoy said furiously, “and I won’t be returning to this inferior shop, you can be sure of that. I shouldn’t be surprised if my father shuts you down completely. Just you wait.” He whirled away, a fistful of quills in his right hand, only to glimpse Harry standing near the door. If possible, his eyes narrowed even further. “ _Potter_ ,” he spit out. “What are you doing, gloating? Get out of my way.”

“Here,” Harry said, before he realized the words were leaving his lips, “ring them up, I’ll get them,” and he dug in his pocket for the coins he knew were there. The shop owner gave him a relieved look and immediately set about making change.

Malfoy, on the other hand, was livid. “I don’t want your _charity_ , Potter,” he snarled, white-knuckled. “Or is this how you buy friendship? Is this why the Weasel’s friends with you, you buy him things, those disgusting dress robes—"

“Shut up,” Harry said, patiently. He thanked the owner and pocketed his change before facing Malfoy. “Don’t you dare say a word about Ron. Though I shouldn’t think you’re in a place to mock the Weasleys about money ever again.”

“I’m not _poor_ ,” Malfoy hissed, and shoved the handful of quills at him. “And you can take your fucking quills. I don’t want them _now_.”

“You might as well keep them,” Harry said. “Anyway, it isn’t charity. I do expect something in return, you know.”

“I never agreed to that,” said Malfoy sharply, though there may have been a glint of admiration in his eyes. “Well, what is it, Potter, want me to fix the next Quidditch game? Want the answers to the next Potions exam? Maybe an apology for your little Mudblood friend—"

“Call her that again and I’ll hex you,” Harry said, fierce. “No. It’s a loan. You can pay me back when you get a chance.”

“By tonight,” Malfoy snapped.

“If you want.” He felt, somehow, absolutely empty of hate. There was something pathetic about Malfoy, furious and futile, gripping a handful of quills in the door of a dusty shop. “Oh, by the way, aren’t you supposed to be watching the third-years?”

“I’ve better things to do than wipe their noses for them,” Malfoy scowled. “The Ravenclaw can handle them.”

Harry didn’t know why, but he smiled. “Right,” he said, and stepped out of the shop, into the cool autumn sunlight. Malfoy didn’t follow, but inexplicably, Harry felt lighter, weightless. Up the street, he caught a glimpse of Hermione, looking windblown and happy, several books under her arm. Sticking his hands in his pockets, he hurried to catch up.

Two weeks after Hogsmeade, a nondescript owl fluttered past Harry’s plate at dinner and dropped a parcel in his lap. He stuck it in his pocket without unwrapping it, though quizzical looks from Ron and Seamus prompted him to lie, “It’s from Lupin. It’s nothing, we just made a bet on something. A Muggle game.”

“I didn’t know Lupin paid attention to Muggle things,” Ron said, but he didn’t question it further. Hermione looked about to say something, probably something disapproving about gambling, but just then, she cast her eyes to the space behind Harry and said, enthusiastically,

“Oh, hello, Tonks!”

Harry almost jumped when Tonks slid onto the empty bench beside him. “Wotcher, Hermione,” she said, cheerily. “I tell you, if old Sprout tells another story involving her prize petunias, I’ll about go mad. I think Flitwick’s dozed off in his potatoes.” Her hair, a deep purple color, had changed from straight as a pin to curly since the day before. She didn’t appear to notice that everyone in the Great Hall was staring at her. “How’s your mum, Ron? I did owl her a new vase for the one I broke, but I still don’t think she’s forgiven me.”

“Mum’s like that,” Ginny interjected, grinning openly. “Are you allowed to do this? Come down here and sit with us like this?”

“Well, you don’t see the Slytherins inviting Snape to dine with them, but I think it’s all right,” Tonks grinned. “Anyway, I’ve got an excuse. Harry,” and she turned to him, “what with the DA and all—oh, Lupin filled me in, all right—you know more about some people’s skills than I do. D’you mind sparing an hour or two going over what you covered with me?”

“I, uh,” Harry said, horrified to find that he was flushing again, “of course, sure.”

“Great,” Tonks said, and, without preamble, added, “My rooms, eight o’ clock!” She swung one leg back over the bench and, tousling Ginny’s hair, set off back for the table of Professors, whistling some irreverent tune that probably had a lot of awful words to it. Harry thought Sirius would probably have known it.

“Oh, that’s wonderful, Harry,” Hermione said immediately. “I always thought the DA and Defense class shouldn’t work separately. Make sure you tell her about the Patronuses!”

“And how I could hex Malfoy,” Ron added. “Ask her if she’ll let me hex Malfoy. For a demonstration, of course.”

“Ngh,” Harry said, some sound of acknowledgement, while inwardly his mind was racing in circles. Eight o’ clock? That was nearly two hours away, and his palms were already sweaty. He’d never felt this way around Cho, not even when she’d kissed him in the Room of Requirement. Something about Tonks made him feel as if all the nerve endings in his body were about to be rewired.

And, what was worse, the entire Great Hall was whispering about it. He was sure he heard the words “In her own _rooms_ ” pass from the Gryffindors to the Hufflepuff table, and he felt his neck burn.

 _It’s just lesson planning_ , he thought studiously. _Lessons. Defense. That whole club bit, I’ll bet she’s forgotten it already._

He told himself the same thing on his way from the Great Hall, with everyone’s eyes upon him, and all the way through Hogwarts until he was standing at her door. It took him three tries to knock. He wouldn’t have admitted to mussing helplessly at his hair beforehand, but nevertheless, he smoothed it desperately one last time just as she came to the door.

Tonks appeared in the doorway with wet hair, wearing a faded black T-shirt with some Muggle band, and flashed him a grin. “Harry,” she said, sounding happy to see him, “come in,” and he thought, desperately, _This is for the DA_ , before letting her shut the door behind him.

“Want something to drink?” Tonks asked him, returning to her place on the couch, setting down the book that was spread on the seat. “Haven’t got much, but—"

“I’m fine,” Harry said nervously.

“I hope I didn’t embarrass you at dinner.”

“No, I.” He couldn’t seem to finish his sentences. He rubbed the back of his neck distractedly. “I just. Oh, I brought some notes, I didn’t know—"

“Smart of you,” Tonks grinned. “Look at me, I haven’t got any parchment out at all. Here, why don’t you just tell me a little about what you’ve done, and we’ll go from there?”

Harry said awkwardly, “I suppose I could do that.” He realized there was an awkward gap between them, him hovering by the doorway and Tonks reclined on the couch, and he couldn’t decide whether to perch opposite her in the chair, or sit on the floor, or—

“Sit down, sit down,” Tonks encouraged. “So? Sirius said you were working hard.”

The way she said Sirius’s name sounded as if Sirius had just brought it up the other day over tea, and Harry had to swallow several times before he trusted himself to speak. “We were working a lot on Patronus spells,” he said tentatively, folding and unfolding the paper in his hands. “And I thought it’d be a good idea, what with the Dementors leaving Azkaban, and working with Voldemort now. We did, um. Well, we started out with Expelliarmus, even though Zacharias Smith thought it was dumb—"

Tonks snorted. “And yet I expect you’re the reason he got an E on his OWL.”

“Did he?” Harry said, feeling somewhat more at ease. “I didn’t know that—well, we worked on basic blocking techniques, and some common spells—covered Stunning, but Seamus is still a bit rusty on that —I was trying to work on technique, more lately, how to be alert and watch all around you, like it would be in a real battle, but there was only one of me and I couldn’t focus on all of them.”

“I’ll bet Terry Boot was rubbish at that,” Tonks said. “He can’t even keep his eyes on his target. Brilliant on theory, but leaves a little to be desired on spellwork.”

“Oh, yeah,” Harry nodded. “Well, I think his problem is that he’s _too_ distracted. Sees something and turns towards it, even if there’s already an enemy in front of him.” He caught himself. “Well. A hypothetical enemy—the only ones I’ve seen in battle are—"

“I know,” Tonks said gently. “I was there.”

The space between them turned awkward again, just as it had been going well. _Sirius_ , Harry thought, _Sirius_ . . . “I forgot,” he muttered. “But you didn’t—you didn’t see him—"

“I was unconscious,” Tonks told him. “But I heard. Harry, I’m sorry.”

He felt, if possible, even more uncomfortable than he had when he was dancing with her. “I,” he said, but he didn’t want to say _It’s okay_ if he didn’t mean it, and there was nothing else. Finally, he said, “Did you know him well?”

“Sirius was close with my mum,” Tonks shrugged. “I was only eight when he was sent to Azkaban, but I remember him coming around sometimes. More when I was younger. He didn’t agree with her about the Order. But I still remember him begging to take me on his motorbike when I was five or six. Mum would have none of that, even though it was all I’d talked about since his last visit.”

Harry imagined Sirius being the one to slide the cover off his motorbike, hand on Harry’s shoulder, rather than Lupin; he imagined Sirius’s face lighting up as he said, “Isn’t she beautiful? Go on, give her a try.” He felt a sudden shock of Sirius’s absence, and he couldn’t look at Tonks while he said, “Disagreed about what?”

“Oh, my mum was never part of it,” Tonks said, an unreadable expression crossing her face. “She said that she couldn’t bear it, facing her choices like that, coming up against Bellatrix or Regulus and having to fight them. I still remember them fighting about it in the kitchen one day. Sirius called her a coward and then my dad punched him. That’s all I remember.”

“But she wasn’t—she didn’t help the Death Eaters, did she?”

“No, she was friends with some of the Order members. It broke her heart, what happened to Alice and Frank Longbottom. But she still wrote letters to Narcissa and—"

“Narcissa Malfoy?” Harry said, incredulous. “But—"

“She never wrote back,” Tonks assured him. “My mum kept writing, though. She said she was always closest with Narcissa. She tells me stories, you know. I think she gets lonely, sometimes.”

Harry found it hard to believe that anyone could feel nostalgic for the cold and forbidding House of Black, but he only frowned. “Does she _still_ write?”

“Stopped when I became an Auror,” Tonks said. “We got a polite little card from the Malfoys. All flourishes and elegance, congratulating us on having an Auror in the house. Mum ripped it up and stopped writing. I suppose she got what she wanted.”

“But how could your dad put up with that?” Harry asked, setting his DA notes on the table. “I’ll be he’s relieved she doesn’t write anymore. I would be.”

Tonks gave him a strange look. “Harry,” she said, almost softly, “didn’t anybody tell you? He was killed the first week in July.”

“Oh,” Harry said. There was a plummeting feeling in his stomach, and he stammered, “I’m—I didn’t know, I thought—"

“No, not many people knew. I thought maybe Remus had told you.”

“Was it Voldemort?”

Tonks shrugged, looking down at her hands. “Close enough. Bellatrix, I assume, or one of her friends. I came home and found my mum Stunned and covered in his blood.” She wasn’t looking at him, only the carpet. “Their idea of a joke.”

Harry felt ill. “Is your mum all right?”

“For now.” Tonks sounded so different from her usual cheerful self that Harry had to wonder how much, exactly, she kept hidden day by day. He’d seen her laughing countless times since the beginning of July, and yet her dad had been killed. Part of him wanted to know how she kept it locked away. Some days, the very mention of a Grim in his Divination notes could make it all flood back. “Makes you realize you could just be a picture on the wall someday, doesn’t it? Not a comforting thought.”

Harry had no idea what to say.

“And here you are, listening to me ramble,” Tonks chuckled, giving him a rueful smile. “I’m not in the habit of killing the mood, I promise. Kirley always told me I was the life of a party. Got a reputation to keep, don’t I now?”

“I’m sorry about your dad,” Harry said, seriously. He didn’t ask who Kirley was, and didn’t care.

The corner of Tonks’s mouth twitched a little, and she said, with a regretful look in her eyes, “Me too, Harry.”

They sat in silence for another few moments. And then, as simple as that, as if nothing had been said between Harry’s entrance into the room and now, Tonks flashed him a grin and said, “Gave me the shock of a lifetime to see you in that club.”

“Oh,” Harry said, heat rising in his face. He had hoped that, while unlikely, Tonks would never mention it again. “In the, um. With. Yeah.”

“Quite a birthday,” Tonks continued on, raising her eyebrows. Harry almost wished they could talk about Sirius again. “Go there often, do you?”

“I’d never been before. Ron took me.”

“Kind of an escape,” Tonks said, shrugging a shoulder. Harry wondered, for a swift moment, what she was escaping from. “Pretty safe, though, and the music’s not bad. Once I saw Lumos there, and I caught The Mermen last month, do you like them?”

“I haven’t heard of them,” said Harry, whose taste in wizarding music was largely limited to The Weird Sisters. “Are they good?”

“’Ennervate’ is a pretty good song, I’ll have to play it for you sometime.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, “okay.” Tonks was looking at him strangely, almost wistfully, and he frowned. “Do you miss your dad?” It came out without him thinking, and he realized as an afterthought that, when people asked him about Sirius, he typically responded by freezing up and snapping at them. “You don’t have to—I mean—"

Tonks shrugged a shoulder. “It’s all right. Yeah. He wrote to me every week I was at Hogwarts, you know? I’m closer with my mum, but she gets a little vague, sometimes, she tends to forget time passing – the war was hard on her. Anyway, he was the one I’d tell about all my mischief, and the hearts I’d broken, and all of it. He always said he was proud of me.”

For some reason, the idea of weekly letters made something around Harry’s heart seize up, and he had to glance away quickly. “I’m sorry,” he said, again.

“We all do what we can,” Tonks shrugged. Harry thought it was an odd response to sympathy, but he said nothing. Tonks went on, “Your DA, for instance, that was brilliant. We had some awful Defense teachers in our time, but then, it wasn’t too important, back then. We all thought You-Know-Who was gone for good.”

“Yeah,” Harry muttered. “Well.”

“Things were easier back then,” Tonks said quietly. She wasn’t grinning anymore, but openly looking at him instead, head tilted slightly. For no reason at all, Harry felt a strange ache in his stomach.

He said, rather hurriedly, “D’you want to—look at my notes? Er, now?”

From the way she was looking at him, she didn’t appear to have heard a word of it.

“Come here,” Tonks said.

Harry swallowed. His mouth was dry, and he felt as if his stomach were plummeting to his feet. “I don’t – “ he tried to begin. Instead, Harry found himself beside her on the low couch, feeling as if his limbs weren’t quite attached to the rest of his body and having no idea how he had got there. She was smiling up at him. He had to remind himself that this was quite normal, that he _liked_ Tonks . . .

“Harry,” Tonks said, and put one small hand on the denim of his knee, rubbed it reassuringly. He felt the pit of his stomach warm. She slid her hand a little higher, he could feel the heat of her palm. “Harry, I don’t really care about your notes right now.”

“I,” Harry said, hoarsely, “I uh, really like you, Tonks—" He halted again. It felt strange to be calling her Tonks when she had her hand halfway up his thigh and was smiling at him so.

One corner of her mouth quirked upwards further. “Oh come on,” she said, “just kiss me, will you?” And she rose to her knees, swung one leg over his lap, and ended up straddling him, mouth hot and eager over his.

Harry shut his eyes, some small sound caught in his throat; she was rubbing against him like a cat and pulling at his shirt. Tonks slid a hand between their bodies, arching her neck when his mouth slipped to that soft place under her chin. “Just,” she breathed out harshly, “yes, like that,” as his teeth skimmed her skin. She had her nimble fingers tugging at the button on his trousers and was yanking the zipper down, then, and Harry jerked in surprise, hips bucking at her touch.

He was dizzy with the suddenness of it; it seemed that one moment he’d been sitting in an armchair talking about her dad and the next, her fingers were wrapping around his cock, her breath coming swift and hot in his ear. “I, wait, wait,” he managed, and the next thing he knew, she had climbed off him completely. He felt even more foolish this way, still hard, his trousers left open and his breathing harsh.

“Sorry,” Tonks said, and _laughed_ , lightly, as if nothing at all had just happened. She squeezed his knee again. “Sorry, Harry. I didn’t mean to jump on you like that. I just figured—"

“No, I’ve never,” Harry said, flushing as bright as Ron usually did. “It’s all right, uh, I—"

Tonks was, for some reason, snickering. “I probably scared you half to death,” she snorted, having to stop and catch her breath. “Well, now I feel ridiculous. We can talk Defense, if you want.”

Were things always this awkward? First she’d been all over him, and now he was sitting here, still aroused despite his embarrassment, and she was offering to talk about Defense. “It’s all right,” he said, hesitantly, still red.

“Look at you blush,” Tonks laughed. “All right. Slow, maybe?”

“Slow,” he repeated, hazy, and then let her kiss him—slow, careful.

“All right?” Tonks said.

“Yeah,” Harry said faintly. And then, suddenly, “Wait, Tonks, can you—can you get in trouble for this, isn’t it somehow—"

Tonks grinned at him wickedly. “As my good friend Mundungus Fletcher might say, ‘Nothing’s a crime unless you get caught.’”

“But what if someone finds out?“

“If you don’t want to—"

“I do,” Harry said, too quickly.

“Sure?”

Harry was sure he was red-faced. Why was there so much talking? In his imagination, it had never been this awkward. “I’m sure,” he said, a little hoarsely.

“Good,” Tonks said, as if that settled the matter, and she leaned in to kiss him again.

By the time Harry stumbled into Gryffindor Tower, it was beyond curfew, and he had to tiptoe into their dormitory, already hearing Neville’s rattling snores rising from his bed. It was never quite safe to trip through their room without a light, but he managed to skirt around the large dark shape that was Neville’s latest plant and to slip over the various assortment of clothes that had been strewn about and left there, all without waking any of them up. As he passed Ron’s bed, he heard Ron mumble, “I only eat the blue ones, I already told you,” but it wasn’t unusual for Ron to talk in his sleep, and he shrugged out of his robes with a sigh.

For some reason, while he knew Ron would come straight to him if he’d just got the first blow job in his life, and probably even shout it to the whole Gryffindor common room, he didn’t much feel like sharing.

In fact, he could hear Ron’s voice for himself. “That’s brilliant!” Ron would say, grinning widely. “What was it like? What was _she_ like?”

And Harry would rather forego that conversation.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like it. Granted, he’d come almost immediately, but Tonks had only laughed and patted him on the head, as if he was—well, as if he was a sixteen year old boy in her Defense class. “All right, Harry?” she’d said, and he thought he’d nodded, and somehow he had ended up in the corridor headed for Gryffindor Tower, scarcely able to remember if she’d done up his trousers for him or not. (She had.)

He’d felt relieved, mostly, that he apparently wasn’t expected to navigate the further awkward mechanics of pleasing her in return, as the most he knew came from several sloppy kisses with Cho, one botched attempt to put his hand on her breast when it actually ended up somewhere on her ribcage, and the suggestions of Seamus’s more sordid magazines, which Ron sometimes stole from him and waved around the room, shouting things like, “Will you look at those knockers, Harry, she’s bloody stacked!”

It occurred to Harry, somewhat ironically, that Ron had probably given more thought to Tonks’s breasts than he had.

Just then, Ron rolled over noisily, and Harry froze, one sleeve still on. The last thing he wanted to do was to talk about his evening, even to a half-asleep Ron who would probably be thinking more about the dream he’d just had. But Ron gave a strangled snoring sound and flopped over again, and after a moment, Harry, relieved, pulled off his robe entirely and dropped it on the chair. He just—didn’t want to think about it right then. Or ever, maybe. He was supposed to face Tonks in class. He was supposed to hand in homework to her, and practice Defense with her, and work with her on the DA. And she’d—

Harry frowned. Something in his robes had clinked heavily on the chair leg, as if hearing his silent plea for distraction. Kneeling, he felt in his pocket absently, wondering if he’d stuffed an old ink bottle in there, or perhaps an empty tin of Cockroach Clusters that Ron had left about. Then he realized what he had crammed there: Malfoy’s package.

Pulling it out, frowning at its knobbly shape, Harry climbed onto his bed and pulled the curtains. Were coins shaped like this? Sitting cross-legged, he whispered, “ _Lumos_.”

What fell out of the small parcel was not, as he expected, a few coins, or even some kind of prank. Instead, something heavy and smooth tumbled into his palm, and he held it to the steady light of his wand.

It looked like a miniature dragon.

Harry frowned. He’d expected repayment in exact change, even if Malfoy had been forced to borrow money from Parkinson. Or even, if Malfoy had been particularly rotten, the quills themselves, returned to him. Instead, he’d got . . . this. Whatever it was.

 _Probably a dark heirloom that’s going to kill me in my sleep_ , Harry thought wryly, even as he doubted it. Malfoy was full of whinging and threats, but Harry would bet he didn’t own a thing that could be considered Dark magic.

Besides, the Ministry had raided the Malfoys’ house for Dark artifacts, hadn’t they?

Still, he wasn’t taking any chances. He wrapped it back up and crept from bed to lock it in his trunk. Whatever damage it could do there, it wouldn’t get to him unless it breathed fire. And the little figurine looked stationary enough to him.

Exhausted, bewildered, head aching and vision swimming with fatigue, Harry stumbled back to bed and tossed his glasses on the table beside his bed. He felt as if he’d just fought a Hippogriff. Tonks, Malfoy, the dragon, Voldemort—it could wait until morning. Thoughts still swimming with Malfoy’s furious eyes in the shop and the way Tonks had grinned at him, he slipped, effortlessly, into sleep.

Harry dreamt of water. He was under the tree by the lake, watching the lights reflected on the surface, but the sky was a lake too, full of floating stars. The grass was soft against his neck and he was watching stars slip across the sky, tiny swimmers striking out for the horizon, but at the same time he felt a sense of urgency itching against his thoughts, some unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach. When he heard a noise, he sat up suddenly, and realized why. Wading through the shallows was Malfoy, his pale reflection wavering before him like a reverse shadow.

“Malfoy,” Harry’s dream-self said. It was then that he realized he was naked.

Malfoy was too. Water droplets were like stars on his pale chest, glittering in his hair. He strode through the water, shallower and shallower, and soon only his legs were submerged, then only mid-thigh, then his knees. His cock was pale in the moonlight, like the rest of his skin, and Harry suddenly wanted to touch him.

“Malfoy,” he said again. Harry was standing, palms braced behind him against the tree trunk, and Malfoy came forward until he was close enough that Harry could see that his pale, fine hair was perfectly dry. He reached out a hand, slid his palm up that white skin. “Malfoy.”

The pale boy dropped gracefully to his knees and, without a word at all, slipped first his hand and then his mouth around Harry’s prick. He could feel the tree bark against his skin, the cold breeze, Malfoy’s mouth was hot and his tongue eager, thumbs bruising into Harry’s hips. Harry came moaning out Malfoy’s name, and it was on his lips when he woke up, pants wet and cold.

Harry made his way to the bathroom and showered in silence, the water echoing. He wanked mechanically, one arm braced in front of him on the tile, legs spread. When he came his knees nearly buckled and his mouth worked, soundless, breath harsh and rapid.

Harry was mid-dress when Ron came in, and he tried to put his dream—and all the events of the night before—out of his mind, in case any of it showed on his face. Something must have come through, because Ron looked at him curiously.

“You all right, mate?” Ron said, splashing water on his face. He looked up from the sink, mouth dripping. “You look a little pale.”

Harry shrugged. “I’m fine. Just worried. Dreams. You know.”

“Oh,” Ron said. Harry could tell he was thinking about Voldemort and who could have killed Dudley. Perhaps, Ron was probably thinking, Harry and Tonks had stayed up the night before and talked about the war. Harry didn’t bother to correct him. He would rather have Ron preoccupied with thoughts of the Dark Lord than thoughts of Draco Malfoy on his knees in front of Harry, mouth red, eyes closing blissfully . . .

Harry wasn’t aware he was flushing in horror. He had turned towards the door, luckily, and Ron was too busy brushing his teeth to notice anything.

 _Nice going_ , Harry thought furiously at himself as Ron yawned and stretched. _Snape tells you to block Voldemort out and you dream about Malfoy instead_. There was something really wrong with him. After all, he’d dreamt about _Malfoy_.

“Came in after curfew, did you?” Ron said, looking at Harry now, something of a grin catching in his expression. “Must have been some meeting. Hey, did you talk about Malfoy?”

“I—no, we didn’t talk about Malfoy,” Harry answered, attempting to sound as if he were scornful of Malfoy’s existence, instead of overwhelmed by the mere suggestion of Tonks and Malfoy in the same sentence. Was that what had brought it on? It was just a dream, after all. He’d been thinking about the dragon, and he’d been thinking about what Tonks had done. It was practically expected.

Wasn’t it?

In an effort to change the subject, Harry said, “By the way, Lupin wrote.” Though the letter hadn’t come with the tiny package Harry’d claimed was from Lupin, it was still true. Harry’d received it several days before, filled with Lupin’s neat, scrawling script.

“About the Order?” Ron asked, looking up from the sink. “Any news?”

“If there is, he didn’t tell me,” Harry said bitterly, finally finding something to take his mind off the previous night. “It’s all ‘Keep an eye out’ and ‘Work hard’ and ‘Practice your Occlumency,’ like that’s all there is to worry about! Something’s got to be going on; you heard them all summer, hiding behind doors.”

“Why’d he write, then?” Ron said, looking unimpressed. “Just to tell you to study?”

Harry paused. “He wants me to come for the hols.”

“To Siri—" Ron caught himself. “He wants you to stay at Grimmauld Place?”

“Yeah.” Harry found, once again, that he didn’t want to talk about it any longer. Grabbing his towel, he moved towards the door. “Come on, or we’ll be late for Quidditch practice.”

Harry was always famished on the days Gryffindor had early morning practice, and this morning, Jack, the captain after Angelina, had run them extra hard. They played Slytherin in two weeks, the first match of the year, and with Gryffindor’s team sorely depleted after Angelina, Alicia, and the Weasley twins had left, they were on a tight schedule to train.

“Natalie’s not bad,” Ginny offered, trudging into breakfast between Harry and Ron, all three of them shivering and damp with the morning fog. She’d become the other new Chaser once Harry rejoined the team as Seeker. “Kirke’s okay, although he’s rather slow, isn’t he? I told Jack we should have held new tryouts for the other Beater, that Kirke was just a replacement for Fred and George, but he doesn’t listen. Doesn’t want to be reminded that he was a replacement too, I suppose.”

“And he never shuts up,” Ron muttered. “Every time I miss the Quaffle, he’s all over me. Don’t see anybody getting on his case for anything.”

“Catch the Snitch early,” Ginny suggested brightly to Harry, as if it were that simple. “We thought Angelina was bad, but Jack’s really living in Oliver Wood’s shadow. Saw him poring over all these diagrams yesterday, like some kind of battle plan.”

Harry was about to respond when they reached the Gryffindor table and Hermione looked up, her eyes serious. “Sit down,” she said, earnestly, without preamble, and pushed her copy of the Daily Prophet across the table at them. “Read this.”

Harry took it from her, noticing that most of the others were similarly absorbed in their papers; the chatter was low and urgent, and there was a tension in the whole Hall, a trepidation.

He read the article. Then he passed it to Ron and Ginny, mouth a firm line.

“It had to happen sometime,” he said to Hermione. “We said it was only a matter of time.”

“But all of them loose?” Hermione looked torn between storming to Azkaban herself to put things to right and sitting down to cry. “And who knows who else is gone besides Lucius Malfoy’s friends. Any number of criminals.”

 _The entire Auror force has been deployed to recover Azkaban’s prisoners and return them to their jail,_ the article had read. Next to the article, there had been a strip of fugitive pictures. One of them was Lucius Malfoy. Another, Dolohov, and Harry had recognized the scowling faces of Macnair and Rookwood.

“We’ve got to talk to Lupin,” Harry said. “He’ll know what’s going on.”

Ginny frowned, having just finished the article. Ron took it from her to read the last paragraph. “Do you think Tonks will have to leave? Being an Auror?”

 _Tonks_. At the sound of her name, the memory of last night—had it only been last night?—flooded through Harry, and he was overwhelmed by guilt. There he’d been, while Lucius Malfoy and his cronies were, no doubt, rejoining their master. Voldemort was planning while he was—what? Acting like he was any other boy in the middle of adolescence. He swallowed sharply. He had no time to spare for thinking about such things. He needed to work on Defense. But first he needed to talk to—

“Tonks!” Ginny exclaimed, looking relieved. “Tonks, what’s happening, what’s going on? Have you talked to Lupin? Our parents? Is there—"

“Not now,” Tonks said, leaning on the table between Harry and Ron. Harry expected a shiver of recollection at her close proximity, but all he felt was tired. The smile she gave him was reassuring, nothing more. “Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny. My rooms, after dinner tonight. We’ll talk then.”

Hermione looked solemnly across the table at her. “So it’s true?”

Tonks nodded. “Every word of it. I’ll see you tonight.”

When she had gone, Ginny said grimly, “I’ll bet Malfoy’s doing cartwheels over this one.”

Harry looked up. Malfoy was, indeed, absorbed in the article, but he seemed to be just as anxious as Harry and his friends. His face, from Harry’s distant perspective, looked sharp and worried. He certainly wasn’t smirking with ill-concealed glee, as Harry had expected.

Hermione looked over too. “He looks almost sad,” she observed, after a moment. “Don’t you think?”

Ron laughed harshly. “Well, I’d be sad too, if my dad was Lucius Malfoy and he was coming back for me.”

Later, Harry and Ron climbed the steps to the Owlery with a letter for Lupin, too important for someone to recognize Hedwig and intercept it, only to run into Malfoy there. Harry said, more suspiciously than he meant to, “Who’re you sending a letter to, then?”

“It’s hardly your business,” Malfoy retorted savagely. He shoved his owl out the window, as if in an act of defiance.

Harry frowned. “What happened to your owl?”

Sharply, Malfoy drawled, “I’m so glad you care, Potter. She’s busy, if you must know.”

He hadn’t been paying particular attention, but now that he thought about it, Harry hadn’t seen Malfoy’s distinctive eagle owl for weeks now. If the creature were still delivering a message, it had either been detained or was going to Australia. He doubted either option.

Harry glanced at Malfoy while he fixed his message to his owl. There was a quiet about Malfoy he hadn’t noticed before, as if something had been drained from him. Still, after his dream the night before, the very sight of Malfoy was disconcerting, and he tried to put those thoughts from his mind. It was easier now—Malfoy wasn’t naked and glittering in the moonlight, after all, and mostly just looked peaked and small.

Just as Harry began to feel pricks of pity for Malfoy, Ron opened his mouth.

“Doesn’t matter if your dad’s out of Azkaban,” Ron shot at him. “He’s dead meat. And you’re never getting your stuff back. My dad said the Ministry’s taken it all.”

Malfoy sneered back without hesitation. “Perhaps he can steal it and buy a bigger hole for all your sniveling siblings. I heard you all sleep in the same bed, Weasley, you and your stupid sister too.”

Ron’s fists were clenched. “Shut up about Ginny, Malfoy, or—"

“Bet she loves that, getting it from her brothers and her father. I shouldn’t think your fat old mother keeps him happy anymore—"

“ _Stop it_ ,” Harry shouted, before Ron could pull his wand. Ron glared at him. So did Malfoy.

“I told you that you picked the losing side, Potter,” Malfoy hissed. He gripped his wand in his pocket and threw poisonous glances at both of them before stalking off down the stairs. Harry released the breath he’d been holding.

“Harry,” Ron complained, “I could’ve had him, you know I could have! One good hex—"

Harry sighed. “Do you really want to get in trouble now? He’s not worth it, Ron, and you know it.”

“But you heard him! He said—"

“What he said isn’t true, and even he knows it,” Harry said, starting down the stairs. “Don’t let him get to you. It’s only Malfoy.”

Only Malfoy. _This_ was Malfoy, the same bigoted, small-minded little ferret he had hated for years, the one who taunted Ron and paraded around with Umbridge and reported to his father. And who had looked at Harry so knowingly in his dream, knelt before him, and—

 _A dream_ , Harry told himself, walking faster. Ron hurried to catch up. A mistake of a dream that meant nothing. Malfoy wasn’t worth a second thought.

Harry thought, darkly, that his birthday night had begun all of this. This fixation on Malfoy, this almost pity for him, this _thing_ with Tonks. He couldn’t keep on like this. Not with Death Eaters loose. Not with Malfoy’s father, with all of them, rejoining Voldemort at any minute. Not with his life in danger and the only way out to kill, or be killed . . .

“At least Tonks will be straight with us,” Ron said staunchly, reminding Harry suddenly how much he’d kept from Ron. The prophecy, the club, last night, Malfoy. Harry felt suddenly guilty. “None of this babying Mum does,” Ron continued on, oblivious. “You reckon she has to leave?”

“I don’t know,” Harry responded, his mind elsewhere. “Could be. Who’ll teach Defense then?”

Ron groaned, “I hope it’s not Snape.”

“Maybe Lupin will come back,” Harry said hopefully. “He’s only doing Order stuff now, isn’t he? Anyway, nobody cares if he’s a werewolf, now that Lucius Malfoy’s not on the board.”

Grimly, Ron said, “I hope they catch Malfoy’s dad and lock him up forever.”

“Yeah,” Harry muttered. “Yeah. Come on, or we’ll be late.”

Harry was strangely grateful that Ron hadn’t wished Malfoy’s dad dead. He’d probably thought it; so had Harry, more than once. In fact, sometimes he had lain awake and wished for nothing more than to have Lucius Malfoy at his wandpoint, his sneering face transformed by terror. But it suddenly seemed callous to say out loud that he should die. Harry thought of Malfoy’s drawn, quiet face. He wondered how he would feel.

No. No, he shouldn’t wonder. Malfoy had just accused Ron of sleeping with his sister, after all, without a second thought. And this was the boy he wanted to—

 _I don’t want any boy to do that_ , Harry thought quickly. He was addled by the events of the night before. If anything, shouldn’t he be thinking about Tonks? Her cool fingers, her mischievous smile, flashed just before she lowered her head to his lap. The way she had practically leapt on top of him, lips hungry on his, as if she had forgot—or was trying to forget—everything they’d talked about just before.

Harry strode more quickly at Ron’s side. In the past twenty four hours, life had got altogether more complicated than he’d expected.

Hermione and Ginny were standing outside Gryffindor Tower when Ron and Harry stepped out of the portrait hole. “. . . he didn’t,” Ginny was saying, low-voiced, looking impressed. “That’s so sweet, Hermione.”

“Yes,” Hermione said—rather more pointedly than necessary, Harry thought. “Anthony is a very sweet boy.”

Ron stuck his hands in his pockets and said grumpily, “What did he do now, buy you a library?”

“Close,” Ginny answered, before Hermione could. “He gave her the password to Ravenclaw and told her she could use their library whenever she wanted. How’s that for romantic?” After a moment, she added, “Well, I mean, I wouldn’t want a library from Dean, but he certainly knows what Hermione likes, which is what counts.”

“Splendid,” Ron muttered, “why don’t you just invite _Anthony_ along, then?”

“Well, there’s no need to be rude about it,” Hermione said briskly. “We’d better hurry, Tonks is waiting for us.”

Ron whispered to Harry, “Well, if we hadn’t wasted time talking about bloody Goldstein for so long,” and Harry grimaced in what he hoped would be taken as sympathy. He didn’t entirely blame Hermione for growing frustrated at Ron’s obtuseness, but Ron was his best friend, and that counted for something.

They walked quickly, not speaking, though Ginny kept casting knowing looks at Hermione and grinning, upon which Hermione would press her lips together, as if to keep from smiling. At this, Ron would glower at the floor, and Harry would hurry them along, eager to get to Tonks and hopefully change the subject.

When they reached her rooms, however, all four heard voices from inside, and Hermione frowned. “That sounds like Tonks,” she said. “Should we knock, do you think? It’s nearly half past.”

It was certainly Tonks who was speaking, though none of them could make out any specific words. Finally, Ginny stepped up and rapped loudly on the door. The rest of them hung back, waiting.

“Ginny!” Tonks said, pulling open the door. “Glad you all came. Come in. Do you mind waiting in here for a few minutes? We’re just finishing up.”

“That’s fine,” Hermione said, speaking for all of them, and Tonks gave them all a familiar grin before disappearing into the next room. Harry watched Ron, Hermione, and Ginny all settle down on Tonks’s couch—the couch he’d sat on the night before, with Tonks close beside him—and swallowed uneasily. After a strange look from Hermione, he sat down in the armchair.

“Who do you think is here?” Ginny whispered, eyes curious and bright. “Do you think it’s Dumbledore? What are they doing?”

“Maybe they’re having a meeting,” Ron suggested.

“They do have a staff room,” Hermione said, a bit too scathingly. “Honestly.” There were a few voices, and she frowned.

“They _could_ be having a meeting,” Ron muttered, looking defiant, but just then, the door opened, and Mad-Eye Moody came out. Tonks followed him, looking even more cheerful beside Moody’s suspicious scowl, and then . . . Malfoy?

He looked even paler than he had that afternoon, something scared and angry in his posture. Yet at the sight of Harry and his friends, Malfoy’s expression went from bitterly relieved to furious in a second.

“What are you staring at?” he snarled as he passed them, and though he was speaking to all of them, his eyes bored into Harry. Moody took him sternly by the elbow, then, and he jerked so sharply away that even Moody’s scarred visage screwed up in surprise. Harry watched the sad hunch of Malfoy’s back until he passed through the door.

“What do you think Malfoy was doing here?” Ginny hissed in a low voice, once the door had shut behind Moody, Tonks, and Malfoy. “Do you think he’s a spy?”

Ron snorted. “Him? More like a suspect. Moody probably just scared him half to death, did you see him? Looked ready to piss himself.” He grinned widely, more cheerful at the idea of a terrified Malfoy.

“They probably want to see if he has any leads on where his father is,” Hermione said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he did.”

“If he does, he doesn’t know it,” Moody boomed, having limped back into the room without their notice. His vivid blue eye rolled around the room, as if an enemy could have appeared in his brief absence. “A good dose of Veritaserum and some thorough questioning and still nothing. Gave the boy a good scare, though. Seemed to be quite terrified of me.”

“It’s your charming personality,” Tonks drawled. “It stuns the best of us.”

“Your impersonator turned him into a ferret once,” Harry said quietly.

Mad-Eye Moody continued on as if he hadn’t heard either of them. “The boy’s a waste of time,” he said. “Still, Dumbledore knows to keep an eye on him. Been checking his post. We’ll keep watching him, just in case.”

“So will we,” Ron interrupted eagerly, “he’s been up to no good since we met him, him and his Slytherin friends! They’re always after Harry.”

“Well,” Moody growled, “constant vigilance, Weasley,” and stumped off out the door. At their bewildered faces, Tonks laughed.

“Good old Mad-Eye,” she said. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“It’s all right,” Harry spoke up. “Did Moody come here just to talk to Malfoy?”

“We thought he might have some contact with his father,” Tonks said. “Well, we thought Lucius would be smarter than that, but sometimes the answer’s under your nose, so we had to check. All he could do was whinge about the Ministry locking half their belongings up, though, so Moody went and gave him a good scare. Nothing like Mad-Eye to put you in the mood for confessing. Though even Veritaserum got us nowhere.”

“Isn’t Veritaserum a last resort?” Hermione said, with some concern. “Did Dumbledore know about this?”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures, Moody likes to say,” Tonks explained. She chuckled a little too forcedly. “In fact, that’s probably why he came out of retirement for the war; he’d never do anything Fudge asked otherwise. But you came here to hear what’s going on. It’s true that loads of Aurors are being called on to hunt down the escaped prisoners. Moody’s demanding a screening process, sure that some of them are friends with Lucius Malfoy and his like, so I’ve got to go and search with the Order Aurors before everybody else is processed.”

“But who will teach Defense?” Hermione asked, at the same time Ron groaned, “Please don’t let it be Snape.”

“Not Snape,” Tonks laughed. “You might be happy to know that Remus has agreed to take over for the short time that I’m gone. Meanwhile, Harry, I want you to start up the DA again, this time with Remus’s help. It’s important.”

“I will,” Harry promised, though he flushed when he saw paper scattered on the table beside the couch. They were his notes on the DA, which they had never touched.

“And the rest of you need to keep an eye on Malfoy and his gang,” Tonks continued. She affected Moody’s gruff bark. “Constant vigilance! Dark forces! Beware!”

Ron laughed, and Ginny smiled, but both looked absolutely committed to watching Malfoy’s every move. Hermione squeezed his arm, as if she sensed his anxiety. “Just think, DA meetings again,” she said to all of them as they got up, trying to get him to smile, too. “And Professor Lupin will be here. Not that I don’t like you, Tonks,” she hurried to correct herself, “we just learned a lot from him in third year, that’s all.”

“Good luck!” Tonks called after them, sounding almost falsely cheerful. “And don’t forget your essays on what makes Dark magic, I’ll be telling Remus about them!”

“Great,” Ron muttered, as they walked back to Gryffindor. “Tonks would’ve taken twenty inches, I know she would’ve, but Lupin never will.”

“Ron!” Hermione exclaimed, frowning. “The assignment specifically says twenty three to twenty five! You’ll never make it to your NEWTs with that attitude.”

Rolling his eyes, Ron muttered, “Oh, save it, Hermione. I bet Goldstein’s already revising for NEWTs, is that it?”

“We’re all doing work to prepare ourselves for the exams,” Hermione said briskly. “That’s why every assignment is important. And, Ron, don’t you think this essay is most important of all? We’re starting to study what makes Dark magic what it is. Understanding something is the key to knowing how to defeat it.”

“Understanding something is the key to knowing how to defeat it,” Ron mocked her. “You sound just like Dumbledore.”

“Well, he _is_ the Headmaster of Hogwarts, I should think his advice is quite sound!” Hermione shot back, rather pink. “Honestly, Ron.”

“And I think—"

“Oh, shut up, both of you,” Ginny said, without much rancor, intervening before Harry could snap the same. “If you’re just going to argue, we might as well not even talk. Besides, we should be thinking about the attack. I’ll bet Mum and Dad know something, Ron. If we were just at the headquarters, maybe we could overhear—"

“Yeah, and _wishing_ we were there does a fat lot of good,” Harry said before he could stop himself. Somehow, he’d found one more thing he just didn’t want to talk about.

Ginny glowered at him, but she said nothing. In fact, the rest of their walk was relatively silent, marked only by the scuffing of shoes and Ginny’s occasional huffy exhalation. When they climbed through the portrait hole, Harry only spared the girls a gruff “See you” before climbing the stairs after Ron.

“She’s taking this whole House unity thing too far,” Ron muttered, looking darkly back at Harry, who was half-inclined to ask who Ron was talking about, before realizing, who else? “First she’s got to be friends with the Ravenclaws, now she’s bloody going out with one of them–“

Harry made what he hoped was a noise of assent as he yanked off his shirt and pulled on his pyjama top; he’d heard Ron rant about Anthony Goldstein so many times in the past fortnight that he thought he might hate him simply for having to hear about him daily. It was only when he heard the word “Occlumency” that he broke out of his reverie to say, “What?”

“Goldstein’s probably got a secret deal with Snape,” Ron repeated, looking as if Harry were not quite right in the head. “Remember what I told you yesterday, about him at dinner, when Snape—"

“The thing you said about Occlumency,” Harry said patiently.

“You should look out for him next lesson, I said. Hey, isn’t that tomorrow?”

Harry, who’d sat down heavily on his bed, lay back and closed his eyes. “I forgot.”

“Well, you’d better remember, Harry.” Ron cast him a sympathetic look. “Snape’s been looking extra vicious lately, have you noticed?”

As if the three potions he’d been forced to redo for no significant reason hadn’t been a sign. “Yeah, I’ve noticed, Ron,” Harry said dryly. “I’d have to be thicker than Goyle to miss it.”

“Maybe it’s got to do with the attack,” Ron speculated, looking hopeful. “Maybe the slimy git’s the one who got them out, and now—"

“Maybe,” Harry said tiredly, only half-listening. “’Night, Ron.”

“What? You’re going to sleep?”

“I’ve got to,” Harry said. “I’ve got to work on my Occlumency.”

After a minute, Ron said, “Oh. Good luck.” He yanked the curtains shut around his bed, and Harry suspected that Ron was probably off to have a good wank. He wished, for a second, that his life was uncomplicated enough to do the same. Up til the day before, it had been, more or less. He could pull himself off to nameless witches Seamus had tacked up, and if his fantasies were mostly vague and quick, what of it?

Harry rolled over, sighing. He was getting distracted again, and he had Occlumency the next evening. How had he forgotten? The last thing he wanted was Snape to see his memories of the night before or, worse, his dream of Malfoy. He tried his best to clear his mind, but it was no use; his thoughts were dashing between the escaped Death Eaters, the way Tonks had grinned at him only one night ago, the scared, defiant look Malfoy had worn as he’d scuttled out of the room before Moody . . .

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it all out. By the time he fell asleep, he’d succeeded, with the fuzzy relief of knowing he could tell Snape he’d been practicing and not be telling a lie. As he slipped into sleep, for what might have been the first time that day, Harry felt better.

He dreamt about Malfoy again.


	3. Chapter 3

“You won’t believe what happened this morning in the library,” Hermione said to Harry and Ron as they stood in the courtyard, hands in their pockets against the October cold. Her cheeks were stung red with the wind, which made her look even keener about the news. “Pansy Parkinson started a row with some first years. They weren’t even Slytherins; I think two of them were from Hufflepuff and one from Ravenclaw. All because of some silly book.”

Ron rubbed his hands together in the chill and said dryly, “Parkinson stole a book from some first years? And that’s exciting why?”

“She threatened them with hexes until they gave it up,” Hermione said, as if Ron hadn’t spoken. “But the best part was, it’s some silly book about household spells. I’ll bet your mum has it, Ron. _A Thousand Ways To Scrimp With Sylvia_ , or something ridiculous—"

“It’s not ridiculous,” Ron said, looking suddenly embarrassed. “Mum got tons of ideas about mending old robes from that book. She learned how to shrink Bill’s shoes to fit Ginny in first year.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, looking rather embarrassed herself, “well, yes, that’s just it. Why would Pansy Parkinson need a book like that?”

Harry hadn’t been paying much attention and said absently, “The Slytherins will probably have a good laugh about it.”

“No,” Hermione replied, and she almost sounded triumphant. “It was for Malfoy.”

“That wanker?” Ron scoffed. “He’s got loads of money. What’s he need that for?”

“No, I heard from Padma that he hasn’t got any money left,” Hermione informed them both. “She said she heard the Slytherins weren’t so inclined to treat him like royalty now that his dad’s name’s sullied. Apparently, he’s borrowed Nott’s robes for a few Sickles. Did you notice at breakfast how they seemed too long on him?”

“I have better things to do with my time than remember what Malfoy was wearing,” Ron said disgustedly.

Harry interrupted. “His mother won’t even send him new robes? Surely—"

“Serves him right,” Ron muttered, finally seeing the justice in the situation. “All those years of his jibes, let him see how it feels! I hope he mixes up the spells and turns his robes pink or something awful.”

“Ron,” Hermione said. “I’d think you would be more understanding, seeing as—"

“As _what_ , Hermione? Seeing as I’ve been hearing from Malfoy ever since I met him how poor my family is? How we’re good for nothing because we live in a hole and all our things are secondhand and even Ginny’s got clothes that were my mum’s when she went to Hogwarts? How do you think it feels, Hermione? D’you think I’m going to be chummy with Malfoy because he can’t buy new quills either? I’d rather make friends with Grawp!”

Hermione flushed, apologetic, but Harry was embarrassed himself: he had lent Malfoy money to buy quills, and he hadn’t even got any for Ron. “I would buy you quills, Ron,” he said, quietly.

“I don’t need any bloody quills,” Ron snapped. “Forget it. How does Padma Patil know all this, anyway?”

Hermione still looked flustered. “She’s seeing Nott,” she explained, shrugging. “They’ve been on and off since the middle of last year.”

“Theodore Nott?” Ron choked. “That weedy bastard? But his dad was in Azkaban!”

“Well, Theodore wasn’t,” Hermione said, though she did look away; it had, after all, been Hermione herself who’d Stunned Theodore Nott’s father in the Department of Mysteries. “Besides, Padma says Nott doesn’t know anything. She wouldn’t be with him otherwise. Honestly, Ron, she was in the DA.”

“Could be a spy,” Ron grumbled.

Hermione looked cross. “Padma is not a spy.”

“You never know,” Ron insisted. “It’s a bit fishy, don’t you think, Harry? Shouldn’t Ravenclaws date _people in their own House_?”

“Cho was a Ravenclaw,” Hermione said impatiently. “And as for Anthony, if you happen to be insinuating—"

Thankfully, Harry was saved from another bickering session as Ron exclaimed, “Bollocks, I left my Transfiguration essay in the common room.” He dashed off to get it before class, leaving Hermione shaking her head.

“Oh, honestly,” she sighed. “Hasn’t anyone else paid attention to the warnings? ‘We must unite inside her or we’ll crumble from within,’ that’s what the Sorting Hat said last year. And didn’t you hear it this year: ‘Stand together or all will be lost.’ That’s what it said.”

“And that’s why you’re dating Anthony Goldstein, then?” Harry said cheekily. “Because the Sorting Hat told you to?”

Hermione colored. “No, but—oh, Harry, you know what I mean. The DA, that was progress, we were finally working together! I don’t see why it’s bad to reach out to the Slytherins either. Certainly not all of them, well, but Theodore’s all right, he was in the library once and he didn’t call me a Mudblood or anything—"

“Not calling you a Mudblood makes him an all right bloke?” Harry demanded. “Hermione, come on.”

“I’m only saying. Besides, you like Lisa, don’t you?”

Harry had to admit that, actually, he did like partnering with Lisa in Potions. She was more impatient than Hermione and more inclined to stamp on his foot whenever he opened his mouth to speak, but she’d probably saved him from detention more than once. Besides, he’d come to appreciate her ever-present sarcasm. “Yeah, but what does that have to do with anything?”

“Inter-House unity, Harry,” Hermione said, as if he hadn’t been listening to a word. “Now that Umbridge is out of the way, it’s really important to start working on it, don’t you think?”

“I suppose so,” Harry replied vacantly, preoccupied with a different train of thought. All that she’d said about Slytherin had got him thinking. “Hey, Hermione. Would you, er, would you know a Dark artifact if you saw one?”

She looked thoughtful. “Well, it’s hard to say, isn’t it? Some of them disguise themselves very well. There are some spells you can use to test it, but they’re rather delicate. It depends how evil they are, too. Haven’t you been listening in Defense? Some things are outside the Ministry classification, but some still think of them as Dark magic. And, well, some of them, made of bones and human hands and things, it’s rather easy to surmise, wouldn’t you say?”

Harry deliberated for a moment before reaching into his pocket and drawing out the little dragon. “What do you think of this?”

Hermione took it from him and turned it over in her fingers, lips pursed. “Where did you get this?”

“Um. Malfoy.”

She looked up at him sharply. “You stole it?”

“No! It was—it wasn’t like that. I lent him some money.”

“You lent Malfoy money?” Hermione looked incredulous. “Malfoy?”

“He didn’t have any,” Harry said, as if that explained everything. “He was trying to charge it to his father’s bill, but the storekeeper said something about a memo from the Ministry. I think all their money’s been taken or something.”

“Yes, but Harry, you hate Malfoy.”

He hoped he wasn’t flushing. “Me lending him money had nothing to do with him being Malfoy.”

“Oh, and I suppose if Voldemort had been standing there rummaging for pocket change, you would have given him a few Sickles, too?” Hermione said edgily.

“You were the one just going on about inter-House unity!”

She looked at him frankly. “For some of us. Harry, has Malfoy ever shown you anything but animosity? I was referring to the students who hadn’t threatened your _life_. He goes out of his way to taunt you about your parents, and you heard him on the train, he knew about Sirius—"

Sirius’s name triggered something in Harry, and he snapped, “Look, it happened, all right? Can we just talk about the dragon?”

“All right,” Hermione said, looking both annoyed and apologetic. “Then let me get this straight. You lent Malfoy some coins, and he sent you this?”

“I didn’t expect it,” Harry explained, “I thought he would just pay me back.”

Hermione _hmm_ ed. “Well, it does seem that he doesn’t have any money,” she shrugged. “He could be giving away his things because they’re the only things of value he owns. But why would he send you—"

“I just don’t want it attacking me when I’m sleeping,” Harry said helplessly. Then, “Don’t tell anybody, all right?”

“I wouldn’t,” she frowned. “Do you want me to look at it for you? But Harry, if there’s any chance it could be dangerous, you have to go to Dumbledore, you know that, don’t you?”

Harry nodded, despite an odd reluctance, which he thought Hermione could sense. It wasn’t that he was protecting Malfoy. Why would he want to protect someone who was supporting Voldemort? But ever since he’d seen Malfoy slump out of Tonks’s rooms, cringing away from Moody, he’d felt—

“I saw him just like you did,” Hermione said, as if she’d read his thoughts. “After Moody gave him Veritaserum. I know, Harry. I don’t think it was right, either. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t dangerous. Remember, Lucius Malfoy is loose now.”

“I know. Believe me, I know.” Harry watched her tuck the miniature dragon in her bag, feeling strangely protective of it. Shaking it off, he turned back towards the castle. “Come on, or Ron’s going to get to Transfiguration before us.”

It was another week before Hermione could pull him aside and inform him that the dragon didn’t appear to be dangerous at all, or even magical. It did, however, seem to be rather expensive. “What on earth did you buy him?” Hermione had hissed. “Harry, this is worth a lot.” When he’d told her about the quills, her eyebrows had shot up. “This could pay for far more than a handful of quills.”

Harry had taken it from her, frowning. “How do you know?”

Hermione had reddened. “It’s just a silly charm Ginny taught me,” she explained. “It tells you how much something’s worth based on the materials it’s made of, things like that. It doesn’t account for the work put into it, of course, but it gives you a general idea. It’s useful for shopping, whether or not something’s a fair price or utterly outrageous.”

He’d pocketed the dragon again, more curious about it than before. What was Malfoy playing at?

He was wondering that idly at breakfast one morning, peering at Malfoy over his copy of the Daily Prophet, when Ron nudged him sharply in the arm. “Oy, Harry, your name’s in the paper. Look.”

Harry straightened out the paper, hoping desperately that it didn’t mean bad news. All he found, however, was a grainy picture of him and Hermione from what appeared to be second year, and a long column that seemed to feature Hermione’s name much more often than his.

“It’s only Rita Skeeter, back to her old ways,” Hermione said grimly from across the table. “Oh, Harry, don’t read that rubbish.”

Ron, however, had got a hold of it, and ignored Hermione’s protesting as he flattened out the paper. “Look here, Harry,” he exclaimed, “it says you were ‘betrayed by Granger’s fickle longings,’ ha ha! Here, d’you reckon . . . oh, yeah, right here! ‘Granger has taken up with Hogwarts student Anthony Goldstein, a chubby Ravenclaw. “She’s certainly not with him for his looks,” one Hogwarts student told me, sniggering. Many speculate that Hermione Granger’s own stellar marks are a direct result of her new associations with the House known for its wit—'"

“Stop reading that pack of lies right now, Ronald Weasley,” Hermione snapped, scarlet. “The woman is a vicious liar, and that’s all I have to say about it.”

“She called Goldstein chubby,” Ron continued to snicker, folding the paper and sticking it into his bag for posterity. “Ha, he is getting a bit round, isn’t he?”

“ _Ron_ ,” Hermione shrilled.

“Oh, Herm, obviously she’s lying about you, we all know you’re smart enough on your own—"

Hermione looked ready to burst. “She’s lying about Anthony, too,” she said sharply. “How dare she attack me like that? Still smarting from her year of silence, I expect. Well, I’ve still got the upper hand; we know she’s an unregistered Animagus and can turn her in any time. She’d better watch what she writes. And I know just where she got her information, too, I’m sure of it.”

Following Hermione’s gaze, all three of them looked across the room. Their glances at the Slytherin table certainly confirmed Hermione’s assumptions: The whole table was listening with mirth while, it appeared, Malfoy read snippets aloud. They were all laughing uproariously, and Harry glowered at their table, suddenly furious with Malfoy. How dare he insult Hermione? Harry had been right about Malfoy all along. What he’d spat at Harry at the club, laughing about Sirius and Dudley, that was the Malfoy he knew. He’d probably been faking in Tonks’s rooms, just as he always did. He’d probably—

“I reckon you owe Harry an apology, Hermione,” Ron chuckled, catching sight of Harry’s face. “Just look at how ‘betrayed’ he looks . . .”

“It’s really not all that funny, Ron,” Hermione sniffed. “I’d rather not think about it at all. I won’t give her the satisfaction of acknowledging her lies. I think that’s the best way to respond to rumors, and Padma agrees.”

“Padma,” Ron snorted, buttering a roll ferociously. “Why is it that all the ugly blokes get the pretty girls? First Nott with Padma, and _Goldstein_ . . .” He coloured rapidly as he realized he had just called Hermione pretty.

Hermione, on the verge of growing more annoyed, realized too, and flushed. “Why, thank you, Ron,” she said, looking rather delighted. Then she added, “But Anthony isn’t ugly! He’s really a nice boy, Ron, I’m sure you’d like him if you gave him a chance.“

“Not bloody likely,” Ron muttered, his embarrassment turning into a scowl.

Harry quickly changed the subject.

“Oh, Harry, hurry up,” Hermione urged him later that day, pulling at his arm as they tripped down the stairs towards the dungeons. “You know Snape will take more points if we’re late to class again.”

“I can’t help it if the stupid classroom is so far away,” Harry grumbled. “Besides, what are you worried about? I’m the one Lisa’s going to murder when we show up late.”

They rushed around the corner, then, and drew up short, Hermione grasping his wrist in surprise. Outside the usual classroom, students were milling, and the classroom door was shut. Anthony caught sight of them and waved.

“Hey, Hermione,” he said and put his arm around her. Harry tried to frown at him for Ron’s sake. “Hey, Harry. Snape’s not in the classroom. Nobody knows what’s going on. I reckon we should stick around anyway, though, or he’ll probably give us all Ds for not turning in our essays. And that’s the last thing I need now.”

“You’re doing fine in Potions,” Lisa said, appearing beside them. “Besides, take a look at Pansy Parkinson. She seems to be having a breakdown over there.”

They all looked. Pansy was clutching the arm of Millicent Bulstrode, who did not look too pleased to be the recipient of Pansy’s tears, and her face looked very pale, though it could just have been the lack of light in the dungeons. “. . . so worried,” Harry barely made out. “He could be . . . it’s dangerous . . .”

“What are you looking at?” Malfoy suddenly snarled at them, having seen them watching Pansy curiously. He took several steps forward, facing Hermione directly. “Mind your own business, Mudblood.”

Harry tensed, but Anthony was faster, and he seized Malfoy by the sleeve. “Don’t you talk about her that way,” he snapped, showing more emotion than Harry had ever seen from him.

Malfoy looked similarly shocked, and he wrenched his robe out of Anthony’s grasp. “Get your filthy hands off me,” he snapped. “As if I’d want anything that touched that,” here he looked at Hermione with an ugly sneer, “anywhere near me.”

“Hermione’s the best witch in the school,” Harry hissed right back. “She’s better at everything than you, so I don’t see how pure blood has anything to do with it.”

“You wouldn’t.” Malfoy’s lip lifted with disdain. “Didn’t you like Rita Skeeter’s article, Potter? I made sure to tell her all about how Granger betrayed you. Or did you get sick of her, was that the way of it? Her dirty blood get to be too much for you?” Behind him, two Slytherin girls giggled, and he smirked.

“I’m standing right here, Malfoy,” Hermione said, her voice steely. Harry noticed that she was gripping Anthony’s wrist as if holding him back from pouncing on Malfoy. “So if you’re going to insult me, say it to my face. At least I don’t have to resort to petty attacks on other people just to keep my friends.”

Malfoy looked furious. “As if you have any friends, Granger,” he jeered.

”Actually, Malfoy, I do,” she said evenly. “And luckily, none of them were bought with money, so it wouldn’t matter if I ran out.”

Behind Malfoy, one of the girls snickered and whispered something to her friend, whom Harry thought might be Daphne Greengrass. Malfoy seemed even more enraged by this. In fact, he looked so incensed that Anthony stepped forward, as if to protect Hermione.

Just then, a calm voice interrupted, “I am afraid Professor Snape will not be able to hold class today.”

Harry spun to see Dumbledore standing in the classroom doorway. Everyone else whirled around to stare at him, too; they had all been eagerly watching the confrontation between Hermione and Malfoy, and no one had heard the classroom door open. Dumbledore smiled at them, his eyes twinkling.

“Professor Snape has been detained by unforeseen circumstances,” he continued, though he did not seem very distressed. It seemed to Harry that Dumbledore was looking right at him, as if to tell him something important about Snape’s location. “He will return in time for your next class, of course, and naturally expects you to be prepared.”

Harry stepped forward, hoping that Dumbledore would take him aside and tell him why Snape had gone—had Voldemort called the Death Eaters to him? was Snape on a spying mission?—but before he could even speak, Dumbledore had winked at him and disappeared back inside Snape’s classroom with a click of the door. He looked at Hermione, bewildered. The Slytherins appeared equally confused, though Pansy seemed even more distraught.

“Let’s go out by the lake,” Anthony said to Hermione, hefting the bag on his shoulder. It bulged with books. “I could do with some more revision before the Charms exam tomorrow. Do you want to come, Harry?”

“Oh,” Harry said, caught off guard, “no, that’s okay, I’ve got—other things to do. See you.”

He watched them walk away with Lisa, hearing Anthony say, “How did you know that, about Malfoy?” and Hermione reply, “Oh, isn’t it obvious? That’s how Slytherin is, it’s despicable. He’s been riding on his father’s name all these years, and now . . .” Her voice trailed off in the distance as they began climbing the steps.

Harry frowned. He was again grateful that he hadn’t been sorted into Slytherin, if that was how it was. Shouldering his bag, he thought maybe he would go practice for Charms, too.

“Tell your Mudblood to watch her back,” Malfoy spat, just then, and Harry whirled around. He had thought all the Slytherins had gone. “It’s only a matter of time.”

“Yeah? At least Hermione can afford her own robes,” Harry retorted, before he realized what he had said and felt a horrible rush of guilt surge through him. Malfoy would have gleefully said the same thing to Ron—in fact, he probably had in the past—and Harry would have wasted no time wanting to hex him. Yet here he was, insulting Malfoy for the very same thing.

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed at him as if he’d read Harry’s mind. “I’m not a Weasley,” he hissed. “I’m not poor. It’s only until my father’s name is cleared and he—"

Harry snorted. “Malfoy,” he said, almost patiently, “your dad’s name will never be cleared. He’s a murderer and he works for Voldemort. There’s no way the Ministry’s ever going to let him go.”

The words seemed to hit Malfoy like a sack of Bludgers, because he went white.

“Unless they never catch him,” Harry continued, “but that doesn’t do you much good, does it? He’d still be a fugitive . . .”

“You’re wrong,” Malfoy snarled almost desperately. “My father is coming back!”

Harry thought of the hope that had flared at the sight of his Patronus when it appeared by the lake, and how he had believed, so desperately, that it had to be his father. He thought of the way he had stared at the Veil after Sirius fell through, sure Sirius would reappear at any moment, that if Harry just waited a moment longer, Sirius would be there.

For once, he knew just how Malfoy felt.

“If your dad’s all you lose out of this,” he said, simply, “you should feel lucky, Malfoy.” And with that, he turned away and walked out of the dungeons without a backwards glance.

He didn’t much feel like Charms anymore.

Having Professor Lupin at Hogwarts was, for Harry, an enormous comfort. Sometimes Harry felt like only Lupin knew how he felt about Sirius, and though they rarely talked about Sirius, it helped. Harry visited him sometimes—he went with Ron and Hermione or by himself, often to press him for information or to talk about the DA, but just as often to have tea and complain about Snape. He was even getting used to calling his professor Remus when not in class.

They held the first coordinated DA meeting the last week of October, in the Room of Requirement. This one was publicly announced, and Harry noticed with shock that Theodore Nott had come with Padma and was slouched beside her on a couch, looking skeptical.

What shocked him even more, however, was the appearance of Malfoy. Harry hadn’t seen him come in the door, but later, he caught sight of him in the very back of the room, leaning against the wall with his arms folded and an inscrutable look on his face. Once they began practicing, however, Malfoy disappeared. Harry suspected he’d slipped out when everyone was partnering up.

Though Harry didn’t mention Malfoy’s appearance to Ron or Hermione, he brought it up during one of his meetings with Remus.

“He hasn’t come since, though, has he?” Remus mused, cradling his empty tea cup. “It’s hard to say, Harry. It could be that he was trying to spy. Or he could have just been curious.”

“Tonks asked us to keep an eye on him,” Harry said, taking the last sip of his chocolate. It was lukewarm at best, and he made a face. He didn’t mention that he’d thought about Malfoy when he’d pulled himself off the night before; he’d imagined Malfoy standing beside his bed, the same enigmatic look on his face, and afterwards had tried so furiously to clear his mind that he thought even Snape would be proud.

“Well, it never hurts to be cautious. We’re all watching out. Do you want the last biscuit?”

“You take it,” Harry said. “I’ve got to be off anyway, I’ve got twelve more inches to do for Potions. Snape’s just waiting for an excuse to kick me out, I know it.”

Remus gave him a warm smile. “I’m sure you’ll be fine. Good night, Harry. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The halls were full of shadows, and Harry was preoccupied with thoughts of their conversation, so he didn’t notice the footsteps coming towards him until they stopped and an amused voice said, “Wotcher, Harry,” and he looked up, gaping, to see Tonks standing a little ways down the hall. She grinned at him.

“What are you doing here?” After a moment, he realized how belligerent that sounded, and amended quickly, “I thought you were looking for the Death Eaters—has someone been hurt? Did you find them?”

“Nothing so exciting,” Tonks said, pushing off the wall to walk beside him. She sounded almost bitter about any lack of progress. “Little meeting with Dumbledore, that’s all.”

If anyone would let him in on Order business, it would be Tonks. Even Remus, who had insisted last year that Harry was old enough to know of matters that concerned him, said that some things were better left to others. Harry looked at her hopefully. “What’s happening? What was the meeting about?”

“Oh, things in Wales,” Tonks said airily. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

“I _do_ worry about it,” Harry snapped. “Only I haven’t a clue what I’m supposed to be worrying about, since nobody will tell me a thing. Are the Death Eaters in Wales? Is Voldemort?”

Tonks gave him a look. “Only you would shout his name in the middle of Hogwarts,” she said. “Come on, Harry, walk with me to the doors.”

“Are you going to tell me something?”

“Maybe.” She winked at him, and he suddenly felt like an awkward teenage boy again, whose hair was too messy and whose arms were out of place hanging at his sides, who had no idea what he was doing. “C’mon.”

Harry followed her down the hall, persisting, “What’s in Wales?”

“What’re you going to do, go there yourself?” Tonks asked, one eyebrow raised. “It doesn’t matter because there’s nothing you can do. You’re supposed to be concentrating on your Occlumency and working with the DA—"

“I am!” Harry shouted, finally losing his patience. “But I want to know what’s going on! Don’t I deserve that?”

“Harry,” Tonks said, evenly, “you’re still a boy.”

He couldn’t believe it. Even _Tonks_ was taking Dumbledore’s side. For some reason, he’d always felt as if Tonks were on _his_ side, and this last betrayal infuriated him. He’d had enough of all of it, even this awful embarrassment that surged up every time he even heard her name. “Yeah?” he challenged, before he could stop himself. “You didn’t seem to think so the other night, did you?”

“That’s different,” Tonks said, as if the difference should be obvious. She didn’t even sound phased. “Besides,” and she raised an eyebrow at him, “you’ve fought You-Know-Who more times than you’ve had anybody suck you off, right?”

Harry flushed. “So what? What does that even mean?”

“It means,” said Tonks, and deliberately pushed him backwards towards the wall, “that I don’t want to talk about You-Know-Who. So maybe you shouldn’t be thinking about You-Know-Who right now.”

“Oh,” Harry managed, before Tonks sealed his mouth with hers and he was left unable to say anything more. The stone on his back was cold, compared to the warm weight of Tonks against him, and he squirmed a little. Tonks apparently took it for something else, because she pressed in closer. When he felt her bumping against his knee, he was surprised enough that he moved instinctually, letting her slip her leg between his.

Which was when he realized that the name in his head was not Tonks’s. It didn’t even begin with a T.

Harry almost choked.

“I can’t, I’ve—Potions,” he hastily explained, pushing Tonks away, “Potions essay, going to be late—good luck in Wales—if you’re even going to Wales—"

“Harry,” Tonks said, in a mixture of shock and surprise, “are you all right?”

“I’m fine, I’ve got Potions,” he said desperately and dashed away down the hall before she could even say goodbye. He imagined her staring after him, probably thinking he’d gone absolutely barking mad, but he wasn’t about to turn around, even to look.

Fucking Malfoy. Fucking _Malfoy_ , shimmying against Pansy at the club, leering at Harry more often than not whenever he fell asleep, popping up unwanted when Harry tried to wank, staring at him in DA meetings, sniggering about him in Potions. He couldn’t even kiss somebody without thinking about Malfoy. About kissing Malfoy.

Could that be? Did he . . . want Malfoy? Malfoy, the bigoted little creep who complained to Snape about him and laughed about Sirius in his face and called Hermione a Mudblood just to see him fume?

What was _wrong_ with him?

Malfoy had never been anything special. He didn’t matter. He was nobody to Harry, just an irritation who refused to leave, who persisted in getting attention by trying harder and harder to get under Harry’s skin. Malfoy repulsed him. Everything he stood for disgusted him. Malfoy wasn’t worth a second glance.

But Harry was giving him one. In fact, he couldn’t stop giving him one.

Why?

Harry swallowed. He would talk to Malfoy. That’s what he would do. And Malfoy would say something horrible about Sirius and fleas and lost pets and Harry would punch him and that would be the end of it. Once he saw how rotten Malfoy was, it wouldn’t matter. He’d send Tonks an owl in the morning. And he’d find Malfoy and everything would settle itself.

In the meantime, he had to do Potions. And wonder what exactly was so important about Wales.

Harry went looking for Malfoy after his Thursday Occlumency lesson. As a last minute thought, he’d tucked the Marauder’s Map into his bag, and upon leaving Snape’s office, he unfolded it to find that Malfoy was only a few hallways away, apparently speaking to some student named Tracey Davis. He made his way to the hallway, but stopped before rounding the corner, suddenly apprehensive. Did he even know who Tracey Davis was? He could hear Malfoy’s voice.

“Well, then, let Pansy handle it,” Malfoy was saying sharply, something shrill and impatient in his tone. “I haven’t got time for this sort of thing, and if a third-year girl is too much for you to handle—"

That appeared to be enough, for an unfamiliar girl’s voice answered, simpering, “Oh, I can take care of it, Draco, I’ll just go and talk to her now—"

“Yes,” Malfoy said. He sounded very cold. “You do that.” It was clearly a dismissal, and just then he rounded the corner alone, his expression turning pensive just before he caught sight of Harry. “Oh,” he said, startled. “It’s you.”

Harry had his hands in his pockets and suddenly felt very unprepared. “Malfoy,” he said, eventually, not looking at Malfoy, not looking anywhere but at his feet.

“What do you want, Potter?” It wasn’t necessarily a sneer, but it wasn’t exactly polite either. “I happen to be busy, so if you’ve just come to harass us, I’d rather you pull out your wand right now and have done with it.”

Trying not to flush at the inadvertent innuendo, Harry shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I didn’t—I wouldn’t,” he tried, and then, in a rush, “I thought maybe you’d want to study Potions with me.”

Well. He hadn’t expected to say _that_.

There was a pause. And then Malfoy laughed. It wasn’t the snide little laugh Harry normally heard, but the fact of the matter was that he was still laughing at Harry. “You,” he tried to begin, between laughter, “want to study _Potions_? With _me_? Get lost, Potter.”

“I’d help you with Defense,” Harry said desperately, determined not to back down now.

“Excuse me?” Malfoy had stopped laughing. Something glittered in his eyes. “If I did need help with Defense, which I most certainly do not, what makes you think I’d want _your_ pathetic assistance?”

“You are pretty bad,” Harry said. Something sparked in him at the fury in Malfoy’s eyes, something of the old enjoyment, and he pushed on. This was more like it. “You slipped up on your jinxes last week. I bet third years could do better. And,” with something of delight, “I am the best at Defense in our year.”

“Get bent, Potter,” Malfoy said furiously. “Why did you come down here? What do you want?”

“I want,” Harry said, “I—" Malfoy was looking at him, gray eyes slitted and angry, and Harry suddenly stopped grinning, too. Malfoy was very close. “I,” Harry said again. His voice sounded as if it were coming from far away.

Malfoy didn’t say anything, looking at him. For his part, he looked much more fragile up close, cheekbones sharp, his pale lips thin and dry. He looked rather spindly, actually, two warm spots of color on his cheeks, and the rest of him pasty.

Harry thought he wanted to kiss him.

“I owe you,” he said, instead. “That dragon you gave me—"

“I didn’t give it to you,” Malfoy scoffed. “I’m only charitable to my friends, Potter. I was repaying a debt.”

Harry had seen Malfoy’s so-called charity: upon receiving sweets from his mother, he’d dole out a select few morsels to a handful of other Slytherins, then hoard the rest for himself. Once Harry had overheard him snap at Goyle, “If you touch my chocolates again, I’ll tell your mother you still wet the bed,” upon which Goyle had reddened and thrown Malfoy a guilty, apologetic look. Harry and Ron had laughed over that gem for days.

“It’s worth a lot more than a few quills, Malfoy,” Harry said quietly.

“Well, it’s all I had lying around.” He looked disdainful. “Why should I know the exact value of my things? My family’s never had to worry about money.”

“I could probably buy you a year’s worth of quills with this.”

Malfoy’s eyes flared. “Well, why don’t you run off and do that, Potter, instead of chasing me around Hogwarts as if I haven’t got anything better to—"

“ _Tarantallegra_ ,” said Harry, calmly, wand suddenly in hand.

Perhaps he’d learned something from Snape after all.

Though never the best at deflecting when fully prepared, Malfoy had been caught entirely off guard, and his legs jerked wildly in place. “I hate you,” he hissed at Harry, body twisting out of his control, twin points of red fury on his face. He was staring at Harry with a look of venomous rage. “I’ll kill you, Potter, I’ll—"

“ _Finite incantatum_ ,” Harry said, feeling a surge of pity. Nevertheless, before Malfoy could snap out a curse in return, he threw out another hex, this time sending Malfoy crashing to the floor. He cast another in quick succession, just as Malfoy leapt to his feet.

“ _Furnunculus_ ,” Malfoy shouted, enraged, but it was weak at best, and Harry dodged it with ease.

He was breathing harder from casting, though, and yelled, somehow exuberant, “That’s it, fight me, Malfoy, you think you can? Try it, try to stop me, go on, don’t just sit there—"

Malfoy hexed him again and he blocked it, magic sparks flying off the stones of the dungeon. It was both like a battle with a Death Eater and like play-fighting with Ron, and he felt like screaming and laughing all at once.

“You’ve gone fucking mad, Potter,” Malfoy screeched, and shouted a desperate “ _Expelliarmus!_ ” which Harry avoided easily.

“ _Expelliarmus_ ,” he cast right back, and Malfoy’s wand flew through the air and landed with a clatter at his feet. 

Harry picked it up, expecting Malfoy to slump in defeat, or spit at him and run, or something of that sort. What he was not expecting, however, was what Malfoy did, which was to leap at Harry with his fists.

Malfoy was stronger than he looked: Quidditch had made him lean and wiry, and for his puny size, he wasn’t weak. Still, Harry was larger and probably stronger, and he wrestled Malfoy to the ground, feeling a bit sorrier for having to do it.

“Stop it,” he said, almost sternly.

Beneath him, Malfoy slumped. He was staring at Harry in something like shock, as if in the middle of some harsh realization. Finally, he gave a sullen sneer. “You’re the one who attacked me, Potter.”

“That wasn’t an attack. It was a challenge.”

Angry gray eyes stared up at him. “Challenges are verbal, you fucking Muggle,” Malfoy hissed, “you can’t just have at people like—"

“Voldemort does,” Harry said, rather casually, and stood up. “Here.” Malfoy’s wand clattered to the floor, and he grabbed for it, scowling. “It was a challenge because I wanted you to fight back. Now will you let me help you with Defense?”

Malfoy looked like a furious, drowned cat. “Not like _that_ ,” he snarled.

For some reason, Harry laughed out loud at that. As strange as it might be, he was enjoying himself. And it dawned on him that he had the upper hand here, no matter how Malfoy yowled.

“No, not like that,” Harry conceded. “Come on.”

“Why would I want help from a madman?” Malfoy sneered, trying in vain to retrieve lost dignity. “What is this, Potter, your idea of charity?”

“I’m only repaying a debt,” Harry echoed him.

Malfoy, sullen, said, “I’d rather have more quills, thanks.”

“And I’d rather practice Defense with someone who isn’t afraid to hex me,” Harry shot back. “Are you in or not?”

“ _No!_ ” Malfoy said, scrambling to his feet. “Now piss off, Potter. We don’t need the likes of you lurking around here.”

“Think about it,” was all Harry said. He tucked his wand into his pocket before he turned away.

Four days later, when Harry had all but given up, he found a crumpled scrap of paper tossed on his desk during Potions. Unrolling it, he saw _I suppose you want Potions help in return_ scrawled lazily on the parchment. He looked at Malfoy across the room, whose head was bent in affected concentration. But Harry would bet he knew Harry was looking.

He slipped it into his pocket, just as Snape strode by looking particularly dour. “Not paying attention as usual, I see,” Snape sneered down at him. “You wouldn’t happen to know the next step in this draught, would you, Mr. Potter?”

Harry desperately cast about in his mind, but couldn’t for the life of him think what they were studying. He looked up hopefully. “Um, stir it?”

“That is incorrect, Potter,” Snape hissed, then turned sharply to glare at the section behind Harry, where someone had giggled quietly. “How unsurprising. Ten points from Gryffindor. Perhaps a Slytherin might know . . . yes, Mr. Zabini, do inform us . . .”

While Snape moved on, swooping through the classroom like some strutting bird of death, Malfoy looked up from across the room and fixed his eyes on Harry.

Harry smiled.

“And there are at least sixteen different runes for violence, you see, so it was impossible to track down a book until we were able to clarify whether the . . .” Hermione trailed off impatiently, glaring at Ron and Harry as they walked to the Room of Requirement. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Mm,” Harry said noncommittally, readjusting the strap of his bag, while Ron nodded.

Hermione frowned at them. “Well, it turns out that it was _actually_ —oh, forget it. I can already see your eyes glazing over.”

“Nobody except Percy takes Ancient Runes anyway,” Ron grumbled, looking thankful that she’d left off. “Bunch of rubbish, if you ask me. Who wants to memorize a bunch of silly symbols?”

“They’re actually useful _and_ practical, Ron,” Hermione began, but just then, they rounded the corner towards the Room of Requirement and saw a slim figure standing by the doorway, arms folded. She stood up when she saw Harry and came forward, almost hesitantly.

Harry said, disregarding Ron’s raised eyebrows and Hermione’s tugging him away into the room, “Hi, Cho.”

“Hi,” Cho said, smiling. She looked very pretty; her hair had grown longer over the summer, and it hung past her shoulders, very shiny. Her cheeks were pink, and she kept smiling at him.

Harry couldn’t believe he’d ever liked her.

“I—suppose you have a meeting,” Cho added, glancing at the door to the Room of Requirement. “It’s really nice of you to keep up the DA, Harry, I really think—"

“Yeah, and I suppose that’s why you’ve been coming so often,” Harry said sarcastically. He hadn’t seen Cho since the beginning of the year, and after last year’s debacle with Marietta, he hadn’t exactly cared.

Cho flushed. “I’ve got NEWTs this year, I’ve been busy—"

“We don’t need the likes of you and Marietta anyway,” Harry snapped, not caring if he sounded cold.

“Well!” Cho exclaimed, looking startled and hurt. “I didn’t tell on you last year, Harry, you know I wouldn’t have! And I’m—I’m sorry about Sirius Black, I read about him in the Daily Prophet, and Hermione told me—"

“Oh, you’re friends with Hermione now, are you?” Harry said savagely.

Cho flushed again. “Well—she’s going out with Anthony now, isn’t she—and she told me about last year, how all that was a mistake—"

“Yeah,” Harry said, and from the way Cho stared at him in surprise, he knew she knew just what he meant. “It was a mistake.”

Flustered, Cho was speechless.

“I’ve got to get to the DA meeting,” Harry told her pointedly. “’Bye, Cho.” He scarcely heard her mutter a goodbye in return as he pushed open the door.

When Harry stepped through into the Room of Requirement, he found Remus and Ron rearranging cushions for that evening’s lesson, but Hermione seemed to have been waiting by the door, and she immediately pounced on him. “Oh, Harry,” she said, looking oddly worried. “You didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?”

“Treat Cho like a nobody,” Hermione clarified, frowning at him. “I can tell, you were awful.”

“I wasn’t awful,” Harry said indignantly. “Were you listening at the door?”

“I don’t eavesdrop, Harry,” Hermione retorted, just as indignantly. “I can see it by how you’re scowling. Cho’s not bad, you know. She’s been helping me practice with Apparation and everything, and she’s been so helpful.”

“How nice of her,” Harry snapped, his tone sarcastic.

“I know it seemed like all she wanted was to talk about Cedric,” Hermione went on. “But she didn’t know who else to go to. And you know she’s just broken up with Michael. She probably wanted to apologize.”

Harry glared at her. “Ron’s right, you know. You should just go live in Ravenclaw.”

This seemed to fluster Hermione enough that she had no response, and Harry left her in a hurry to join Ron and Remus, who looked at him with curiosity.

“You look a bit frustrated, Harry,” Remus said mildly. “Is everything all right?”

“It’s Cho,” Ron said, exchanging a glance with Harry. “You’re better off without her, Harry, with all that crying. Didn’t I say Ravenclaws were bad news?”

“Lisa Turpin’s okay,” Harry said, shrugging. Then, too late, he realized how Ron might take that.

“Oh, d’you fancy her?” Ron asked immediately, grinning at him. “She’s the one with the glasses, isn’t she? Oh, no, that’s Mandy Brocklehurst. Lisa’s the one who looks kind of angry all the time, doesn’t she?”

Harry tried not to laugh. “I don’t like her, Ron, we’re just partners in Potions.”

Any teasing Ron might have been about to give him was forgotten, as he snorted, “Oh, once Hermione _abandoned_ you for Goldstein, you mean.”

Luckily, Harry was saved from answering, as the door opened and Anthony walked in, followed by Padma Patil, Theodore Nott, and Terry Boot. From across the room, Harry could hear Terry and Anthony immediately engage Hermione in a conversation about Ancient Runes, Charms, and Egypt, among other things. Next to him, Ron coughed loudly, as if to prove his point.

The room filled up quickly after that, and they settled down to work, which had become more varied as the year progressed: they were mostly working on dueling now, and Remus had suggested they pair up in threes for practice on fighting two foes at once, which they promptly did. Harry and Ron originally partnered with Neville, but once Harry saw Luna wandering around by herself, he left Ron to fend off Neville and Luna and circled the room with Remus.

“Behind you,” Remus called out to Zacharias Smith, who turned to look at Remus instead of Ernie Macmillan. Ernie promptly cast a Leg-Locker Curse unimpeded and turned him rigid. Remus added, “Don’t look at me next time,” and left Ernie to end the spell.

He turned to Harry. “How are things with you?”

“All right,” Harry shrugged, then signaled to Hermione to move to Anthony’s left side, which was left unprotected. She hit him with a _Petrificus Totalus_ , just as Terry Boot cursed him from the other side, and he was left as rigid as a mummy, covered in boils. Harry couldn’t help covering a laugh.

“Keep an eye out on your left,” Harry instructed him.

Remus, with what sounded like similar amusement, pointed out, “And, Mr. Boot, you might find that a curse of boils is not as effective in a duel as it is in a third year fight. Well done, Hermione.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Hermione said, rather breathless, before turning away to inquire whether Anthony was all right.

As they moved on to where Katie Bell was barely holding her own against the team of Ginny and Dean, Remus said in a low voice, “How’s the Occlumency proceeding?”

“Better,” Harry said, making a face. Beside them, Katie was felled by a Bat-Bogey Hex, which seemed to be Ginny’s specialty. Harry and Remus watched as Ginny immediately removed the hex, feeling sorry for Katie as she beat at her face. Without losing a moment, Katie cast a hex in return, and both Harry and Remus gave her an approving nod for her quick recovery.

“But I’m supposed to push him out with my mind,” Harry continued, drawing Remus aside, “and I still don’t know how to do that. I can’t very well stop Voldemort from reading my mind by distracting him with a Stinging Hex.”

Next to them, Justin Finch-Fletchley’s head flew up at the sound of Voldemort’s name, and he was consequently caught unawares by an _Expelliarmus_ , which sent his wand flying into the midst of Katie, Ginny, and Dean. His partners continued fighting without him as he scrambled to get it.

Remus put a hand on his shoulder. “As loath as I may be to admit it, Snape knows what he is doing. He’s very skilled. If Dumbledore isn’t concerned about the pace of your progress, I wouldn’t be.”

“If he even knows, I haven’t seen him for ages,” Harry mumbled resentfully, but he turned back to the dueling students.

When the evening’s meeting came to an end and students began trickling out of the room, Ron flopped into the chair beside Harry, wiping his forehead. “Tiring work, dueling,” he muttered, but he was grinning. “I beat Neville _and_ Luna, did you see?”

“Oh, what do you expect?” Hermione said, approaching them. She had pulled her hair back, probably for the heat but also for better visibility. “You have seen them duel, Ron.”

“Oh, shut it,” he returned good-naturedly. “Both of them did all right in the Department of Mysteries, didn’t they?”

“I don’t think we should talk about that in public,” Hermione was beginning to say, when Luna wandered over to their group, looking as vague and curious as she usually did.

“Hello, Harry Potter,” she said solemnly. “Your friend Ronald casts very good hexes.”

Ron practically glowed as he glanced in Hermione’s direction, as if to say, see? “Thanks, Luna,” he said pointedly. Luna giggled.

“It’s nearly curfew,” she continued, looking dreamy. “I’ve got to get back to Ravenclaw or Daddy says a Blibbering Humdinger might come for me.” She glanced at all of them in turn, even Hermione, as if they, too, should keep an eye open for one. “Goodnight, Gryffindors.” With that, she tucked her wand behind her ear and strolled away, her necklace of Butterbeer caps jingling.

Hermione snorted. “Come on, you two,” she said wryly. “We should get back too, before the Blibbering Humdingers come.”

Harry waved them on ahead of him so he could put away the books left lying on the table and say good night to Remus, who gave him a squeeze of the shoulder and a “Good luck” for the Occlumency. As a result, he was the last to leave the Room of Requirement; he was alone when he reached the staircase and nearly jumped out of his skin when Malfoy accosted him.

“Where have you been, Potter?” he hissed, glaring furiously out of the shadows.

“What d’you mean, where’ve I been?” Harry said, rather put off by being shaken so badly. He glared right back. “I wasn’t aware we had an appointment.”

Malfoy sneered. “I saw your D on your last Potions essay. How _dreadful_ to be such rubbish at Potions that you can’t even scrape by with an A. Do you need my help or not? Because I’d rather not waste—"

“You mean,” Harry interrupted, a rather gleeful shock running through him, “you need my help with Defense, that’s what you mean. Or you wouldn’t be here.”

Glaring at him balefully, Malfoy snapped, “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Well, I’ve seen your Defense marks lately, and they aren’t exactly Os, either,” Harry retorted. “Lupin’s shown me.” Remus had, of course, done nothing of the sort, but there was no need to tell Malfoy that.

“Oh, yes, the werewolf,” Malfoy smirked. “I’ve heard that werewolves mate for life, Potter. Is that why he looks so mangy and depressed all the time? He can’t get it from just _any_ dog?”

“Don’t you dare say one more word about Sirius,” Harry hissed, furious with Malfoy, furious with himself for continuing. “I’ll meet you tomorrow night at seven. Right there.” He gestured fiercely behind him, towards the Room of Requirement.

Malfoy stared at him as if he had three heads. “Potter,” he said, as if explaining this to a very small child, “there’s nothing there but a wall.”

“Walk by it three times while thinking about the kind of room we’ll need,” Harry replied, equally scornful. “If that’s too complicated for you, just wait.”

“I’ll have you know,” Malfoy said after a moment, giving him an appraising look, “that I can say whatever I choose to say about your filthy mutt of a godfather. I am the Prefect here. And speaking of Prefects, only Prefects are allowed out at this hour. But luckily you’re a Prefect, Potter—oh, wait, that’s right. You aren’t. Well, well.”

“Look, I’m going back, all right?”

“Oh, no, Potter, no special exceptions from me,” Malfoy said. He looked delighted. “You’ll find that I, unlike you, actually follow the school regulations. I’ll have to report you, of course. I’m sure Professor Snape will be interested in your disregard for rules.” He stared at Harry triumphantly, as if daring him to protest. “Nighty night, Potter. Run along, now . . . I wouldn’t want to have to report you twice . . .”

Fuming, Harry set off towards Gryffindor Tower. _Tomorrow_ , he thought grimly. Something told him that he was really going to enjoy hexing Malfoy.

Dinner at the Gryffindor table rarely passed without some sort of squabble, whether it was Ginny and Dean fighting and making up within the course of a meal over something nobody but Ginny and Dean could understand, Seamus inevitably offending somebody, or Ron flaring up over the topic of Anthony Goldstein, which was happening more and more frequently. Most of the time, Ron addressed these arguments towards Harry, as if they were in perfect agreement, which left Harry to nod occasionally or add a halfhearted, “Sure, Ron.” Hermione, for her part, ignored them.

“. . . well, I don’t mean to say everybody, of course,” Ron was saying, gesticulating with his roll, “because Harry, if you want to fancy Lisa Turpin, it’s all right with me . . .”

“I don’t fancy Lisa,” Harry said, for what seemed the hundredth time. “There isn’t anybody I fancy, all right?”

“If you say so,” Ron replied, not sounding convinced, but luckily, he jumped into Ginny’s and Neville’s conversation upon overhearing mention of Fred and George’s joke shop, and Harry was saved from protesting further. He hoped Hermione wouldn’t start in on him next, but she was going over her returned Transfiguration essay with a small frown on her face, unaware of anything else.

Harry’s attention wandered and he stared at Malfoy while he ate, unaware that he was doing so, that he was following the other boy’s movements, watching him speak disdainfully to Pansy, then take a regal sip from whatever he was drinking. Once, a tall girl who looked as if she were a seventh year said something to the entire table, and he laughed. Harry couldn’t tell from his table whether it was a dutiful laugh, a derisive one, or even genuine.

“Harry,” Hermione said eventually, having looked up, “what’re you looking at?”

Harry realized, then, and flushed. “Nothing,” he said. “I was just. Nothing.”

After dinner, he spent a restless hour poring over Hermione’s Transfiguration notes before leaving to meet Malfoy. Luckily, Ron and Hermione were at a Gyffindor Prefects meeting, and neither were present to notice him leaving. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to spill about whom, exactly, he was going to see.

Malfoy was already in the Room of Requirement, looking uncomfortable, as if he expected Harry not to appear. When Harry peeked open the door, Malfoy jerked in surprise, then glared warily at him.

Harry said, not unfriendly, “Hi, Malfoy.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Malfoy sneered immediately. “I don’t want your stupid Defense lessons. As if I’d let you get near me with a wand.” Harry opened his mouth to reply, and Malfoy said quickly, “And don’t you dare hex me, Potter.”

“You’re backing out?” Harry said, incredulous. “Now?”

“You actually expected I’d practice Defense with you?” Malfoy scoffed. “Lord, Potter, you really are thick.”

Harry stared at him disgustedly. “Why’d you say yes in the first place, then, Malfoy? Why’d you look for me yesterday? Why’d you even bother coming tonight?” It was only once he’d spoken that he realized Malfoy had fewer answers than he did. “You can’t even tell me, can you?”

“You’re the one who came looking for me,” Malfoy hissed. “If you haven’t noticed, Potter, I go out of my way to avoid you.”

“Oh, really?” Harry raised an interested eyebrow. “Because it seems to me you’re around an awful lot. In fact, every time I turn around, you’re right there. Ron even thinks that you’re stalking me.”

“As if I would stalk you.” Malfoy made a disgusted sound. “Don’t be nauseating, Potter. If you must know, seeing you begging for a little Potions help was amusing. But you’re daft if you think I’m going to let you near me with your wand.”

“Then why’d you come tonight?”

Malfoy, Harry could see plainly, didn’t have an answer to that one.

“I mean, it could be that you were trying to be polite,” Harry continued, enjoying Malfoy’s discomfort, “and you didn’t want to stand me up or anything . . . but no, I don’t think calling my friends names or insulting my parents was really that polite of you, come to think of it . . .”

“I said _we’re through_ , Potter!”

“It could be that you wanted to get me in trouble,” Harry mused, “but then, I’m not doing anything wrong. In fact, it’s hours until curfew. So maybe you wanted to get me alone so you could get me back for what happened with your dad, is that it?” He saw a glint of fury in Malfoy’s eyes and pressed onward. “Bet you were furious about having him gone, huh? The Ministry taking your stuff, all your money taken. Did you have a rotten summer, Malfoy? Want to make me pay for it? Because you can try, if you want, but we’ve all seen what rubbish you are at Defense.”

“You’re asking for it now, Potter,” Malfoy snarled, coloring rapidly.

“Oh, am I?” Harry challenged back. “You know what I think? I think you’re scared to fight me, that’s why you don’t want to practice Defense. Because you’re scared. And now you don’t have your precious father or Umbridge to back you up.”

Malfoy shot to his feet, furious now. “You think you’re so high and mighty,“ he spat, “you think you’re better than me?”

“I think you’re scared, that’s what I think,” Harry said, nearly grinning. “You wouldn’t want to fight me, would you? Not after what happened with your dad, I bet. Or Bellatrix Lestrange, isn’t she your aunt? Because I fought her, too . . .”

“Fine, Potter, you think this is funny?” Malfoy hissed, red-faced, and in that split second, Harry could see him going for his wand, but it was too late to react. “Are you laughing? _Crucio_!”

The shock of the spell, coupled with the split second of lightning bolt pain, sent Harry stumbling backwards. He shook it off an instant later, however, and the tumult of emotions on Malfoy's face told him everything.

He laughed.

"You've never cast the Cruciatus Curse before, have you?" he asked smugly, flashing back to the Department of Mysteries and Bellatrix’s sneering face. "I can tell. You have to want to hurt me, Malfoy. You have to want to really, really hurt me. And do you know what? I don't think you do. I saw your face when the curse hit. You aren't as bad as you like to pretend, are you?"

"I _hate_ you, Potter," Malfoy hissed, so enraged that Harry almost backed down. He had never seen Malfoy quite this upset, even at the end of fifth year. "I _loathe_ you. I would like nothing better than to see you groveling at the Dark Lord's feet. I want to kill you, Potter! Is that enough hatred for you? Do you hear me? My father is in Azkaban because of you! You put him there, and you humiliated me, and a Malfoy never forgets!"

Harry stared at him for a long moment, and he had to repress a smirk. He couldn't stop himself. Here was Malfoy, so angry that his veins popped and his fists clenched, and it was all Harry could do to keep from laughing.

"I bet you've never met Voldemort," he shot back. "I bet he's forgotten that you even exist, now that your dad's gone."

"You don't know anything," Malfoy spat.

"Oh, yeah? I know that that curse you just used is an Unforgivable Curse. I know that I could tell the Ministry and they'd have proof from your wand in no time. You must really want to see your dad again? Miss him enough to go to Azkaban for him? Oh wait, I forgot, your dad’s not there. Well, I suppose you’d just have to wait for him, keep his cell warm."

Malfoy had gone white. "Potter—"

"Oh, I know you’re underage,” Harry said conversationally, “but in these times, Fudge is taking every precaution, haven’t you been reading the Prophet?”

“My mother—"

“I’m sure the Ministry doesn’t look very favorably on the Malfoy name,” Harry continued cheerfully, “and, well, the Blacks don’t have the cleanest record in history either, do they, so your mum couldn’t do much there. It’s good to have friends in the Ministry, but you seem to have made the wrong ones, haven’t you? I heard Umbridge is still in St. Mungo’s and won’t be working for years, if she’s even allowed back.”

“Potter–“

Harry raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t worry, though, Malfoy. I won't tell anyone. If you let me help you with Defense."

"What?" Malfoy stared at him in speechless shock. After a moment, he demanded, " _Why_? Have you gone mad?"

"Like I said, I need to practice with someone who’s not afraid to hex me,” Harry said calmly. “Even if he probably couldn’t Stun someone in a Full-Body Bind. And I could do with some help in Potions, I suppose.”

“Are you _blackmailing me_?” Malfoy said, his tone incredulous.

“You know, I think I am.”

“But you—" He appeared to have seized on a thought, then, and said in a hurry, “What if I’m dealing with the Dark Lord, eh, Potter? I could tell him all your weaknesses, give him the inside information.”

"I think," Harry said mildly, "if you saw Voldemort, you'd be too scared to do anything at all. And if Voldemort wanted somebody to spy on me, I highly doubt he’d pick _you_."

Before Malfoy could splutter a reply, Harry added, "I hear Azkaban's nice for family reunions. One owl, and they'd probably have you there by next week. I bet they’re going to catch your dad any day now. I reckon he’d be overjoyed to find you waiting for him, what do you think?"

"You're mad, Potter," Malfoy snarled, white-lipped. "Fine. All right, by all means. Teach me how to best you."

Harry snorted. “Malfoy,” he said, “I don’t think you ever could.”

The air was cool for the end of October, and Hermione had her Gryffindor scarf wound around her neck, her cheeks flushed pink with the chill. “Oh, Harry, Ron, it’s cold out,” she said, as soon as they stepped outside and began making their way across the grass, still stiff with frost. “Ron, what would your mum say? You should bundle up!“

“The best part of Hogwarts is that my mum isn’t _here_ ,” Ron said pointedly, rolling his eyes. “Now are you coming or not?”

Hermione sighed, but she followed them down the slope towards Hagrid’s hut. “What’d you do last night, Harry?” she said, in an attempt to change the subject. “I didn’t know the meeting would go so late, I know I told you I’d help you with Potions.”

“It’s all right,” Harry said vaguely, “I, I did some Defense work. And some Potions, by myself.”

It wasn’t entirely untrue.

“I was thinking about the essay on Veritaserum,” Hermione mused. Harry seemed to have sparked something with his mention of Potions. “I’d like to address it through ethical application, along with the issues Snape raised in class, about potency, and how its distilled cousins could be employed in more basic, less regulated—"

Ron groaned, then, and interrupted her. “Must you talk about work even when we’re not in lessons?” he demanded.

“Well, I—I do think about other things, Ron,” Hermione protested, flustered. “Fine, what do you want to talk about? Quidditch, I suppose?”

“If you’re offering,” Ron said with a grin. “You know, Harry, I’m beginning to think Jack never sleeps. I saw him in the common room at two in the morning one day, muttering about our plan of attack. Ginny heard from Andrew that he spent all summer practicing.”

“Well, he did whack himself with a Bludger bat on accident last term,” Harry said wryly. “If he’s aiming for a better season than last year’s, he hasn’t got a lot to worry about, has he?”

“Slytherin’s got two new Chasers to replace Montague and Warrington,” Ron muttered. “Some third year named Pritchard, Jack says, skinny little kid, good on a broom. Don’t know who the other one is . . .”

Harry was about to suggest that it could be Nott—he didn’t know any other Slytherins out of their year, come to think of it—but they’d reached Hagrid’s and Hermione was knocking enthusiastically on the door. Whether her enthusiasm was borne of excitement to see Hagrid or gratitude for an end to the Quidditch discussion, it was unclear.

“’Ere, Fang, look who it is,” Hagrid rumbled, beckoning them inside and bolting the door behind them. He sounded pleased to see them—as did Fang, who leapt at them the instant they entered the hut, licking wildly at their faces.

“Bin wonderin’ when I’d see yeh three outside o’ class,” Hagrid said, beaming down at them. “Had a good summer, then, did yeh?”

“It was all right,” Harry offered, not quite sure how to sum up his summer. It had happened nearly three months ago, but it felt like much longer. The news of Dudley could have happened years before. “You probably heard about my cousin.”

“O’ course,” said Hagrid, “was sorry ter hear about ‘im, an’ so soon after Sirius, it’s a dead shame—"

Ron gave Harry a quick look and interjected, “How’s Grawp doing, Hagrid?”

“Oh, loads better,” Hagrid exclaimed. “Got in an awful fight with a centaur, bellowin’ like yeh wouldn’ believe, but he’s healin’ up splendidly, the lad—bin thinkin’ abou’ givin’ ‘im some company, come ter think o’ it—"

“Company?” Hermione echoed, sounding rather startled. “You mean, like another giant?”

“Well, yeh never know,” Hagrid said, shrugging an enormous shoulder, “he gets lonely, Grawpy does, he’s always pleased ter see me. Livin’ in the forest like an animal, though’ maybe he’d like a friend.”

“A friend?” Hermione echoed again, alarmed. “Hagrid, I’m not so sure it’s the best idea to bring another giant here, especially not—well, you said yourself, they’re not exactly friendly, are they?”

“He jus’ gets lonely,” Hagrid said, almost mournfully. “Yeh go in the forest an’ yeh can hear ‘im bellowin’, like he’s lookin’ for a mate—"

Ron looked slightly queasy. “Er, Hagrid, does Dumbledore know about Grawp?”

“Busy man, Dumbledore,” Hagrid rumbled, “he’s got loads o’ importan’ things ter do, can’ be bothered with every creature in the Forbidden Forest, now can he?”

“I think he ought to know,” Hermione said, a bit louder. “Maybe you can tell him at the Hallowe’en Feast. We thought we’d come down to check on your pumpkins. They’re looking lovely.”

“Got a feelin’ this’ll be me best batch ter date,” Hagrid beamed. He didn’t appear to notice the change of subject. “Got me special treatmen’ fer ‘em, got ‘em growin’ good.” He suddenly stopped, and then said, “An’ where’re me manners! Yeh bin listenin’ ter me talk an’ I haven’ offered yeh a cuppa. Jus’ made some biscuits, if yeh’re hungry.”

“Tea would be nice, thank you,” Hermione said, and Ron and Harry agreed, though all of them eyed Hagrid’s plate of rock-like lumps suspiciously. While he was putting his copper kettle on the fire, Harry took a rock-biscuit and gnawed on it, hoping he wouldn’t break a tooth, and said innocently,

“Hey, Hagrid, what’s in Wales?”

Hagrid spun around so fast Harry was surprised he didn’t accidentally punch through a wall. “Wales?” he said, hastily. “Who yeh bin talkin’ ter abou’ Wales? Nuthin’s in Wales, who told yeh anythin’ abou’ Wales?”

Hermione and Ron stared at him, seeming to be asking the same question.

“I ran into Tonks,” Harry explained, “and she told me she’d been in a meeting with Dumbledore, and they were talking about Wales. But she wouldn’t tell me anything else. Is that where the escaped Death Eaters are, Hagrid?”

“Can’ tell yeh,” Hagrid mumbled, “an’ even if I could, I don’ know anythin’ abou’ those Death Eaters who escaped from Azkaban . . . not me area o’ expertise, yeh see, it’s all top secret Auror business . . .”

“What is your area of expertise?” Hermione asked, giving Harry a look as he gave up on the biscuit. Her look told him explicitly that he had better stop keeping things like this from her and Ron, or else. He gave her a halfhearted shrug of apology.

“Can’ tell yeh that, either,” Hagrid protested. “The three o’ yeh, nosin’ abou’ where yeh don’ belong, only leads ter trouble . . .“

“Trouble like Sirius dying, you mean?” Harry said sharply. “Because that’s what happened when we were left out the last time and had to figure everything out for ourselves. We’re all part of the Order, we deserve to know what’s going on, don’t we?”

Hagrid looked guilty at the mention of Sirius’s name, which in turn made Harry feel guilty, as he’d only used it for that very reason. “I don’ know much o’ anythin’,” Hagrid began miserably, but luckily he was saved by the tea kettle, and lumbered about pouring them tea before he could finish his story. When he sat back down, he looked as if he weren’t going to say another word.

“Well?” Ron prompted him impatiently. “What’s in Wales?”

“Yeh can’ do anythin’ abou’ it,” Hagrid grumbled, and then looked at Harry in sudden alarm. “Yeh aren’t plannin’ on goin’ ter Wales, are yeh? O’ all the foolhardy things ter do—"

“I won’t,” Harry said, just as impatient as Ron. “I just want to know what’s going on.”

“There’s nuthin’ yeh can do,” Hagrid said again, as if they hadn’t heard him the first time. “Nobody knows the truth, an’ Dumbledore doesn’ tell the Order everythin’ he knows, either—select information, yeh know, I don’ hear much o’ what’s goin’ on—anyway, bin hearin’ rumors all summer long abou’ activity over there. Firs’ nobody wanted ter listen, with loads o’ diff’rent stories all over the Prophet, bu’ eventually we had ter pay attention—"

“Pay attention to what?” Hermione said. “If it was in the summer, it wasn’t Lucius Malfoy and his gang.”

“Well, Yeh-Know-Who, o’ course,” said Hagrid. “Death Eater activity, people claimin’ they saw ‘im, all the time. Dumbledore had a few o’ Aurors go an’ investigate, an’ that was the end o’ all of ‘em.”

Ron frowned. “The end of them? They were murdered?”

“Don’ know what else it coulda been. Suspectin’ Yeh-Know-Who’s gatherin’ forces, an’ with the Dementors gone an’ out o’ Azkaban, they mighta gone ter join ‘im in Wales, ‘cause Muggles can’ see ‘em, yeh know—the giants with Golgomath too, could be hidin’ out in the mountains. When Yeh-Know-Who firs’ came ter power, he pooled his strength out in the country, gatherin’ all his Death Eaters an’ allies before anybody even knew who he was. Could be the same kind o’ plan, only thanks ter you, Harry, this time we’ve got a warnin’ ter keep an eye out fer ‘im.”

“So they’re all in Wales?” Harry frowned. “But there have been reports of Muggles being killed even in London, haven’t there?”

“Got ter be some o’ his followers around,” said Hagrid. “Bu’ he isn’ goin’ ter jus’ attack Diagon Alley, yeh see, he’s got ter assemble his forces, so ter speak—"

Hermione shivered. “But isn’t anyone doing anything? The Order? The Ministry?”

“Dumbledore’s bin workin’ on it. Bu’ nobody knows where ter find Lucius Malfoy an’ the rest o’ ‘em—could be they’re all in the same place, bu’ Dumbledore doesn’ plan on takin’ any chances. Now are yeh satisfied? I shouldn’ tell yeh anythin’ more, said too much already.”

“They’re keeping quiet,” Hermione said, as if she hadn’t heard Hagrid. “So everyone’s in this state of alarm, thanks to the Ministry’s constant issuing of these silly manuals on defending ourselves, but there’s nothing to be alarmed about. Yet. Oh, it all makes so much sense, it’s horrible.”

Harry frowned at her. “What do you mean?”

“They’re putting too much energy into useless things,” Hermione explained, sounding distraught. “How to seal up your home, what to tell your children if someone you know is killed, rubbish! And meanwhile, Voldemort—oh, Ron, don’t look at me like that— _Voldemort_ is getting stronger and stronger, and one of these days he’s going to attack, and none of us will expect it.”

“We’re doin’ our best ter try an’ keep track o’ Yeh-Know-Who,” Hagrid said, uneasy. “Got, er, a couple spies in his ranks, an’ some o’ the best Aurors on the case.”

“And Dumbledore, he knows what’s going on,” Ron added, rather enthusiastically. “And my mum and dad, they’re keeping an eye out.” Still, he looked grimly across the table at Harry. “I reckon we better keep on with the DA, anyway.”

Harry nodded. “At least we’ll all know how to defend ourselves.”

But, as their talk turned back to the Hallowe’en Feast and even the upcoming Quidditch match, Hermione looked about as comforted as Harry felt, which wasn’t comforting at all. He felt as if he had a lead weight in his stomach, lying heavy inside him, like a dark promise.

It could have been Hagrid’s rocklike biscuits. But somehow, Harry doubted it.


	4. Chapter 4

It had been an exhausting evening. After facing an irate Snape in what had been Harry’s worst Occlumency lesson all year, he’d managed to run to the pitch to catch the last hour of Quidditch practice. Jack had taken to forcing them into early morning and late night practice, as if it would improve their skills to play at all hours of the day. It had begun drizzling shortly after Harry arrived, and when he tramped off the pitch with Ron and Ginny, all three were damp, unhappy, and covered in mud.

After that, it had been an hour of Charms with Hermione and a frustrated attempt to decipher his scribbled Potions notes before Harry could finally climb into bed.

“Mum’ll kill me if I get another P in Transfiguration,” Ron muttered to Harry over the slow snores of the rest of their dorm-mates. “I don’t know how she finds out, but I reckon Ginny. See how _she_ likes it when Mum hears about how she’s been skiving off Charms to meet Dean.”

“At least the team’s looking better,” Harry sighed, flopping back into his bed. “That pass Natalie made today, that was brilliant.”

Ron snorted. “Yeah, Mum’ll be loads happier when she finds out my courses are suffering ‘cause of Quidditch. ‘Night, Harry.”

Harry barely managed out a “’Night, Ron,” before an enormous yawn overtook him. Any attempt at clearing his mind before sleep turned swiftly _into_ sleep; Harry was so tired that he scarcely remembered climbing under the duvet before he was dreaming.

In his dream, Harry was at the Burrow, lying in the grass with Ron. They seemed to be watching a Quidditch match in the sky, though Harry couldn’t make out any of the players, and when he sat up, it wasn’t Ron at all, it was Dudley.

“Heard you screaming about Cedric in your sleep again,” Dudley said, giving him a piggy grin. “Who’s Cedric, your boyfriend? Don’t tell Malfoy, he’ll be mad . . .”

Harry scarcely had time to question this when Dudley pointed behind him and, sure enough, there was Malfoy, coming towards him. Only, for some reason, he was wearing one of Ginny’s sundresses, and Harry stared at his bare legs, oddly muscular in the context of the yellow dress, and—

The dream changed. Harry was no longer lounging in the grass of the Burrow, but standing in a dark, drafty room of stone, his hands clenching the back of a chair. “Soon we will strike,” he hissed, and his voice was high and cold. “Where are Jugson and Rookwood, are they in place?”

“Master,” said a low, female voice, “they have been there for a week, acting as book collectors. Avery is to join them—"

Harry’s thin, white hands curled around the top of the chair, his knuckles standing out like bone. “And the Dementors are there, Bella?”

“Yes, yes, Master,” Bellatrix murmured eagerly, “all is in place, everything is set up, I’ve arranged it all—"

“And Malfoy?” Harry asked, his voice tight and terrifying.

But what Lucius Malfoy was doing, Harry didn’t find out. He felt the dream slipping away from him, and he tried desperately to remain, but it felt as if something were grasping after him, pushing him out . . . his whole head felt as if it were about to shatter, his scar searing . . .

“No!” he shouted, sitting bolt upright in his bed, forehead feeling as if it were about to split open. The ache throbbed as he looked around dazedly. He was in Hogwarts. In his own bed. Safe. Far away from Wales, where Lord Voldemort was pacing, deep in conversation with Bellatrix Lestrange.

Near the window, Neville gave a particularly loud snore, and then the dormitory settled back into its habitual quiet, broken only by the sleeping sounds of the four other boys inside it. As for Harry, he looked around, panicked.

It had happened again. He had been Voldemort, felt his displeasure, his skepticism, his eagerness to attack. But attack where? Moreover, Harry was sure that Voldemort had noticed him this time, his mind chasing back after Harry’s as desperately as Umbridge’s hand had grabbed for Sirius in the fire the year before. The thought made Harry shiver, though the room was warm enough.

He’d even been practicing. Oh, Snape had shouted at him that he was a waste of time, but he _could_ clear his mind before sleep now, and it was only a matter of time before he could manage the same while facing down Snape. Things had been getting easier . . . he hadn’t had a dream about Voldemort in months . . .

Ron gave a spectacular snort beside him, sat up, said, “Whazit?” and promptly flopped onto his side and resumed sleep.

He would tell them the first thing in the morning, Harry resolved, already yawning at the very prospect of sleeping again. He’d tell Ron and Hermione at breakfast, that’s what he would do. Then he would think about telling Remus.

Though maybe he’d leave out the bit about Malfoy in a dress.

Before Harry even realized he had fallen back to sleep, it was morning. He woke to Ron shouting at Dean over something that might have been Ginny and might have been a thousand other things, and Neville rummaging loudly through what sounded like every book he owned. In the mayhem that was their dormitory in the mornings, he heard Seamus’s singing alarm clock beginning to trill, “Time to get up! Get out of bed!”

There was a loud noise that sounded suspiciously like Neville throwing a book at it, and Harry groaned gratefully. He suspected Seamus was in the shower, which meant that any minute now, they would all be treated to his off-key renditions of old Irish drinking songs, most of the words to which he didn’t actually know.

Harry got up with a sigh, just as Dean stalked out of the dormitory, leaving Ron fuming. Harry caught him by the arm and gave him a pointed look.

“Oh,” Ron said, after it took him a minute to get it, “is it—" he lowered his voice, “You-Know-Who?”

“I need to talk to you and Hermione,” Harry told him, and Ron nodded. By the time they’d reached the common room, Ron appeared to have already told Hermione, because she looked at Harry solemnly and said, “Let’s go to the library.”

Once they were there and ensconced in a corner, Harry told them the story, trying not to leave out any detail. Hermione looked distraught.

“But that’s awful,” she exclaimed. “Now we know they’re going to strike, but we haven’t a clue where. Did you leave anything out, Harry? Bellatrix didn’t say anything else?”

“I told you everything I know,” Harry snapped, getting a bit irritated himself. “I couldn’t hear anything else, I told you, I felt something, like he was after me.”

“All right,” Hermione said, still looking anxious. “Oh, but there’s got to be something!“

Ron looked at both of them strangely. “Well, all you’ve got to do is figure out where Jugson and Rookwood are hiding,” he said. “I wonder if Dumbledore can find out all the booksellers—"

“The booksellers!” Hermione nearly shouted. Across the library, a group of frantically studying seventh years gave her a scathing look, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Oh, Ron, that’s brilliant!”

“What did I say?” Ron looked startled, but not entirely displeased, as Hermione seized him without warning and kissed him on the cheek.

“It’s so obvious, how could I have forgotten?” Hermione exclaimed. “Hay-On-Wye. They’ve got to be in Hay-On-Wye. It’s full of books, it’s famous for its old bookstores! And it’s so close. It makes perfect sense.”

“They’re going to attack a town because it’s on our border?” Ron said skeptically, but he lowered his voice when both Harry and Hermione gave him a sharp look. “Well, it doesn’t all add up, does it? Why would You-Know-Who be so interested in a place like that?”

Hermione looked at Harry, her mouth set in a resolute line. “I don’t know,” she said pointedly. “But I’ll bet there’s someone who does.”

Harry sighed. “I’m not going to Dumbledore.”

“Harry, people are in danger!”

“I know that, I’ll tell Remus—"

“Well, I suppose that’s the same thing,” Hermione conceded, a frown still furrowing her forehead. “But you have to do it, Harry, you have to tell him today.”

“Do you think I don’t know how important it is?” Harry shot back. “It was my dream, Hermione. I’ll tell him, all right?”

But Remus’s office was empty when he went looking, and a search for Professor McGonagall proved fruitless. Without wanting to waste the time it would take to rummage about in his trunk for his map, he had no other choice. Speaking with Dumbledore began to seem equally impossible after several minutes passed, however, as his shouts of “Cockroach cluster! Lemon drop! Fizzing Whizbee!” did not work on the gargoyle there.

Just as he was about to go back to Gryffindor and send him an owl, the gargoyle slid back to reveal the open door. “I can assure you, Potter,” Professor McGonagall said dryly, standing there, “the password is not ‘Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum.’ However, I suppose you’d like to see the Headmaster . . . yes, yes, here you are.”

Harry stepped inside gratefully. “Thanks, Professor,” he said, noticing as the gargoyle slid back in place and he began to move upward just how tired she had looked. He wondered if they had been talking about Wales.

When Harry entered Dumbledore’s office, he was startled to find it full of voices. For a moment, he thought that Dumbledore wasn’t even there, until he spotted him in the corner, fiddling with a strange little instrument which whirred and gave off a puff of pink smoke.

“. . . absolutely ridiculous,” a portrait of a tall, scowling man was saying, shaking his head firmly. “There would be no point in government if we were able to dispose our leaders at will! Anarchy, I tell you! Elections serve a purpose.”

“A purpose tied to political factions,” a ferocious portrait shot back from across the room. His long white hair fell over his shoulders. “It’s high time for change. Albus was just saying—"

“No one suggested anything of the sort!” Armando Dippet shouted. “Fudge is a hindrance, but—"

“—no time to wait—"

“—in a war—"

“—Voldemort—"

“—get everybody killed—"

Dumbledore coughed serenely and straightened, smiling at Harry as if nothing at all was going on. “Excuse me,” he said politely to the portraits surrounding him. “We shall continue this scintillating discussion in a moment. Now, Harry, what a surprise. Tea?”

“No, thanks,” Harry said, feeling bewildered. He looked up at the many portraits lining the walls, all of them now tight-lipped and scowling. One particularly ancient looking woman was shaking her head and muttering to herself. For the moment, he forgot about why he had come. “What were you talking about? With Fudge?”

Sitting down at his desk, Dumbledore folded his hands complacently. “There is some sentiment in the Order, Harry, that Fudge is not the most, shall we say, efficient Minister we could hope for in times of war. He doesn’t believe that anything out of the ordinary is happening in Wales, which leaves us struggling to get the Aurors we need.”

It took Harry a moment to realize that he wasn’t supposed to know what was going on, and he tried to look innocently curious as he said, “Something’s happening in Wales?”

“I believe you already know most of it,” Dumbledore told him, eyes twinkling, looking not surprised in the least. “Perhaps that’s even why you’ve come?”

“Oh,” Harry said, thrown off, “yeah,” and told Dumbledore quickly about the dream he had had, as well as Hermione’s deductions. Throughout the whole story, Dumbledore nodded, and behind him, Harry saw many of the portraits listing just as keenly. He felt almost as if he were testifying before the Wizengamot again, so many eyes were on him.

“I suspected something like this would happen,” Dumbledore said once Harry had finished, letting out a profound sigh. “It does not come as a complete surprise, but you and Miss Granger have been of much help.”

“Ron helped too,” Harry felt obliged to tell him. “Er, Professor, what’s so important about Hay-On-Wye? What does he want with it?”

“He wants to attack somewhere that will be noticeable by wizards and Muggles alike. I don’t doubt it will be his re-entry point into England. And, if I may be so presumptuous, there is something else. You see, Harry,” Dumbledore said solemnly, “Hay-On-Wye is where I was born.”

Harry tried to imagine a young Dumbledore, from the, what would it be, eighteen forties, eighteen fifties? It was difficult to comprehend. “D’you—do you have family there?”

“No,” Dumbledore said, smiling sadly into his beard. “My brother Aberforth is the only family I have left.”

“And he’s safe?”

Dumbledore looked down at his desk. “Up until last week, he has been serving as the barman in the Hog’s Head Inn,” he explained, as Harry suddenly recalled the familiar-looking man who had grunted at them and handed them their Butterbeers. “Yes, I believe you know it. But once he heard of the goings-on in Wales, he insisted on returning. He’s there right now, working with Moody’s forces. Thanks to you, Harry, we can alert them to be warned about the possible attack. There were assumptions, obviously, and Hay-On-Wye is rather well defended for the reasons I have explained to you, but no spy has been able to tell us any location for sure.”

“So it’s better that I saw it,” Harry said. “Isn’t it? Without my dream, we wouldn’t have known? So isn’t it better if I don’t close my mind, if I can still see what Voldemort does sometimes—you said yourself that he couldn’t bear being in me, because he can’t stand love—shouldn’t I try to see more?“

Harry,” Dumbledore said gravely, “it is imperative that you learn to close your mind to Voldemort, no matter how repulsive the emotion of love may be to him. All else is secondary.”

Harry challenged, “Even people’s lives?”

“I will never condone or approve of the loss of life,” said Dumbledore. “But as for the value of _your_ life, Harry, it is great indeed.”

“But I helped!” Harry protested. “If I’d been really great at Occlumency, we wouldn’t know now, and Voldemort—"

Dumbledore looked at him from behind his half-moon glasses. His expression was solemn. “I think, Harry,” he said, “that by now, you have seen how untrustworthy dreams can be. With the knowledge that he can access your mind, Voldemort can trick you into believing anything he wants. Just as he did this past June, when he lured you to the Department of Mysteries.”

Harry’s stomach went cold. Dumbledore was right. He’d blindly believed that Voldemort had Sirius, and thus, Sirius had died . . .

“So the attack might not be on Hay-On-Wye at all,” he said numbly.

“One can never be too cautious,” Dumbledore assured him. “But if you are asking me whether dreams can be entirely trustworthy, they cannot. You must continue with your Occlumency, Harry. It is not simply about keeping him from your mind, it concerns whether or not he can ascertain if you are telling him a lie. Someday your life, and the life of your friends, may depend on your abilities.”

“I understand,” Harry said, his voice quiet. “Thanks, Professor.”

“Thank _you_ , Harry,” Dumbledore replied. “And do tell Ronald and Hermione that I appreciate their help as well.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, though he thought it sounded rather halfhearted. What Dumbledore had said about dreams had sobered him; if Harry hadn’t been so foolish and eager to believe what he saw in his head, Sirius would be alive. If not for his “saving-people thing,” as Hermione had said, if not for his belief that he knew where Sirius was, nothing in June would have happened. But Voldemort had suspected that Harry would believe his dreams without question, and Harry had fallen right into the trap. He said, hollowly, “I’ll tell them.”

As Harry stepped out, the portraits began to bicker once again. “Depose Fudge, I say!” he heard a voice roar from the inside, which was instantly met with a slew of disagreement. Sighing, he stepped away.

Harry let the wooden staircase spiral him back to the door, mind blank: clearing his mind of thoughts was a habit now, but for once, he didn’t care if Snape would be pleased. He had told Dumbledore all he knew, but somehow, the weight on his shoulders felt heavier than it had when he entered.

Harry almost took a step backward when he entered the Room of Requirement and saw a scowling Draco Malfoy with his wand extended towards the fireplace. He looked angry enough to destroy a couple dozen house elves, pale frustration creasing his features. Harry made a move to enter, knocking halfheartedly on the door as a warning, just as he heard Malfoy snap, " _Expecto Patronum_!" A mere wisp of silver floated from Malfoy’s wand.

"Thanks a lot, Potter," he sneered, whirling to see Harry poised at the entrance. "You threw me off."

Raising an eyebrow at the fading Patronus, Harry took a few steps forward. "Really? It didn't look too impressive to me, either way."

Malfoy glowered.

"I'm not saying you aren't good at it," Harry added quickly, which he was, "it's just that you need to practice."

Malfoy's glare was withering. "What does it look like I'm doing, Potter?"

"Don't you remember what I told you? You have to think about your happiest memory. Focus on it, make it the only thing you're thinking about, hold onto it as tightly as you can." When Malfoy only stared at him, Harry sighed exasperatedly. "All right, close your eyes. I'm serious, Malfoy. What's your happy memory, then?"

Malfoy‘s eyes flickered open to look at him, not trusting him, then fluttered shut again. He muttered, "I don't know."

"You don't _know_? You've got to have something or it won't work. Didn't I tell you that? Don't tell me you've been practicing without even focusing on anything!"

Eyes snapping open, Malfoy folded his arms, wand tucked against the crook of his left elbow. "I just don't have one, all right?"

"Well, what've you been thinking about all this time?" Both of their voices were rising indignantly. Harry found that he didn't much care.

"Happy things," Malfoy protested vaguely. "You know. Good thoughts."

"Shut your eyes," Harry snapped. "Hold out your wand. You need something more specific, Malfoy, for the last time! Don't you have anything or anyone you can think about?"

"Oh, I have lots," he said, in a tone that seemed to indicate he was lying through his teeth. "The problem is choosing one."

"Well, hurry up and pick."

"It's not that easy, Potter! If you're so superior, what's yours?" His eyes were still open, and they were challenging. "Beating me at Quidditch or something like that, I'm quite sure. Hexing me on the train." It was the first time they had spoken about it in such specific terms and Harry was almost surprised by the resentment boiling under Malfoy's glare. In contrast, Harry's tone was mild.

"No, it isn't," he said. "I'm not you, Malfoy. My happy thoughts don't come from others' humiliation. I think about Ron and Hermione, mostly. Their faces. The Weasleys at Christmas. S—" But he stopped. No, he didn't think about Sirius. Not to bring happiness. Not anymore.

"The Weasel and Granger, no wonder the Dementors run away," Malfoy drawled, seemingly unaware of Harry's sudden discomfort at the thought of Sirius. "All right, then, if you insist. I'll think about my father."

"What? You can't think about your father!"

Malfoy raised an elegant eyebrow. "First you tell me I should, then you tell me I shouldn't. Why not, pray tell?"

Harry spluttered. "Because he's—he's your _father_!"

"Precisely. Now are we going to do this or aren't we?" Giving Harry one last smirk, he shut his eyes with exaggerated care and extended his wand.

Harry had been expecting flying, maybe, or a Christmas gift; perhaps even laughing at Harry in Potions class. What he had not expected was Lucius Malfoy. "Then think about your father. Picture his, um, face. And I guess he's smiling, then. Does he smile? I suppose he must. So yeah, your father, he's smiling, and he's—he's—not killing anybody, and he's not kissing Voldemort's feet, and he's, um, your father. Your happy memory. Okay. Think about that."

"Potter, you're not helping."

"Then think about him yourself! I don't particularly like your father, if you haven't noticed. Just concentrate."

But Malfoy, it seemed, was already concentrating. Harry watched the slight shift in his features, the relaxation of the tight corners of his mouth, and was appalled to find that he looked almost happy. _Happy_. Because of Lucius Malfoy. In fact, he looked a lot more pleasant when he was almost smiling like that, and that was something Harry didn't care to contemplate—because it was Lucius Malfoy, and that wasn't—

" _Expecto Patronum_!"

A silver light bloomed from the end of Malfoy’s wand, much stronger than before; it looked vaguely like a dragon, perhaps, but Harry couldn't be sure. Even so, it was a great deal better than his previous attempt, and Harry found himself grinning for Malfoy’s sake.

"Nice," he said appreciatively. "Almost solid." He took a step back and sat down in the nearby armchair, watching Malfoy admire his Patronus before he let it fade. The loose, almost happy expression he had worn while casting the spell had changed when he opened his eyes, and he looked strangely bitter now, though his eyes had flicked to Harry in surprise when Harry spoke.

“It was good,” Harry told him. And then, probably because Malfoy was still looking more relaxed than usual, or perhaps because Harry had hit his head recently and wasn't in his right mind, he added quietly, "You miss him, don't you?"

Malfoy's eyes flared unexpectedly. "Of course I miss him," he snapped. "He's my father! Of course I miss him!" And then, as if to reassure himself, he added, "I’m sure he’s alive. They’re all alive.”

"So they can kill more innocent people,” Harry said sharply. “I'm sure your happy memories will be multiplying twofold by then."

"He's my _father_ ," Malfoy hissed. "Don't try to tell me how I should feel about my father! He's my father, and I miss him. And no matter what you say, he will come back!"

"That's it, Malfoy," Harry shot back and surprised himself with the vehemence that had stirred at Malfoy’s words. He was sitting bolt upright now, hands balled into fists in the cushions. "That's just it. Your dad's coming back, isn't he? He’s out there somewhere and he’s coming back for you any day now, is that right? Then don't talk to me about missing somebody! Don't you think I miss Sirius? Don't you think I miss my mum and dad? Your dad is coming back, is he? WELL, THEY AREN'T!" 

Malfoy said nothing at all; his mouth was gaping as if he were about to speak, but no words were coming out. Harry's anger was flooding out of him, and he felt the heat rise in his cheeks. "I do mean it—" he began rather irritably, but Malfoy interrupted him.

"Potter," he said, sounding perhaps a bit shocked. "Well—"

"Forget it," Harry retorted, turning away and picking up a book on the table. He certainly wasn't looking for pity from Draco Malfoy. Nor was he expecting it, but if he wanted sympathy, Malfoy would be the last person on earth he would think of going to.

Malfoy said, very quietly, as he was tucking away his wand, "I didn't know."

Harry would have pointed out the fact that Malfoy certainly _did_ know, so he had no right to pretend that he didn't; he would have pointed out that the statement was ridiculous coming from someone who had tormented Harry about his parentless state for years. But there was something of a concession in his voice, and it was probably the closest to an apology Harry’d ever get from him, so Harry settled for a halfhearted shrug.

"That's my book," Malfoy told him, perching on the arm of the chair. "You know, so don't do anything to it. Malfoy property."

Harry rolled his eyes. "This is a Muggle book,” he said. He sounded suspicious, inspecting the book with its thick leather cover in his hands. Trust Draco Malfoy to have the best of everything. _Hamlet_ , read the gold lettering.

“It was Crabbe’s. He and Goyle are taking Muggle Studies for a laugh. He never read it.” Malfoy’s lips twisted. “It’s all right, though.”

Harry frowned. “I didn’t know you read stuff like this.”

"Maybe you don't know very much about me," Malfoy retorted stiffly.

Wryly, Harry muttered, "Well, we haven't exactly had the best of friendships."

"That's hardly my fault, is it?"

"Of course it is.”

Malfoy frowned. "If I remember correctly, you were the one who had the nerve to reject me."

Harry's eyes flashed. "You rejected me."

"Excuse me? Talk about bad memor—"

"You rejected me," Harry repeated staunchly. "By what you said to me. You embraced your pureblood prejudices and rejected who I was. If I'd taken your hand, I'd have betrayed everything I lived for and everything that my parents died for. So yes, Malfoy, you rejected me."

Malfoy said, rather quietly, “That’s twisted, Potter.” They were both silent.

Harry finally looked up at him, handing the book back. "What's the book about? Is it any good?"

Malfoy’s mouth twisted in what could have been amusement. "It's about a prince whose father was killed by his uncle, and his uncle married his mother, and then there's this crazy girl who goes mad. They all die." To Harry's skeptical look, he grinned. "Yes, it is good. Although I'm sure you wouldn't know anything about literature, you Quidditch brute.”

“Hey,” Harry protested, “you play Quidditch too.”

“What can I say? I’m a very well-rounded young man.”

Harry laughed in spite of himself. They were silent for a moment, until he said, unexpectedly, “We should go flying sometime.”

Malfoy’s head flew up, and he stared at Harry. “Excuse me?”

Harry flushed. “I just thought—"

“You really are mad,” Malfoy said disdainfully, though he didn’t sound angry. “If you haven’t noticed, Potter, I’m doing this to prevent you sending me to Azkaban. Do you really think I would tutor you in Potions willingly?”

“We haven’t done Potions in a week,” Harry insisted. “Besides, you know I’m not going to tell anyone about you using the Cruciatus Curse.”

“Which is clearly your clever ruse to trick me into believing you,” Malfoy said loftily. “At which time you’ll run off to Dumbledore like a good boy and I’ll be eating beetles in Azkaban.”

“Do they really make you eat beetles?”

“How should I know?” Malfoy scoffed. “It’s not as if I’ve taken a tour.”

 _Your father was there_ , Harry thought about saying, and didn’t. He could hear the response without saying a thing. Malfoy would sneer at him and spit, remorselessly, _So was your mutt of a godfather. Pity you can’t ask him now._

As if in mutual agreement to avoid that direction of conversation, both looked away. Malfoy said scornfully, after a moment, “You just want to spy on my flying, anyway, Potter. Because you know I’ll be leading Slytherin to a resounding win this weekend, naturally.”

“Like you can even catch the Snitch,” Harry shot back. “I’d like to see you try, Malfoy.”

“Oh, you’ll see better than that,” Malfoy retorted. “You can watch me catch it.”

Harry snorted. “You wish.”

Malfoy only smirked at him. “I’ll see you on the pitch, Potter.”

“Yeah,” Harry said absently. He knew what was there, unspoken, carefully tread around; the word _Azkaban_ immediately called to mind Lucius Malfoy’s escape, and if the conversation they’d just had was any indication, Malfoy would waste no time in leaping to his father’s defense. Nor would Malfoy think twice about insulting Sirius. It was just the way things were. He’d come to expect it; he couldn’t expect anything else from Malfoy, who lived to taunt him about these things.

So why did Harry feel so relieved that they hadn’t mentioned it?

And even more strangely, just why did Malfoy, who’d probably never done a noble thing in his life, not say a word either?

“You are an abysmal failure, Potter,” Snape snarled at him during the next Occlumency lesson, glaring at him from where he stood beside his desk. “I have been working with you since last Christmas, and you have hardly made progress! That hopeless worm Longbottom could do better.”

“I have improved!” Harry said hotly. “I have been practicing, I can clear my mind all the time now—"

“Is that so?” Snape said, his voice silky. “Then why is it, Potter, that when I tell you to clear your mind, you cannot seem to do so?”

Harry wanted to shout at him. Instead, he snapped, “Look, I’m trying, all right? I just get—your office makes me—"

“Oh, I’m sorry, Potter,” Snape drawled. “Are you _uncomfortable_? Perhaps these are not the most _accommodating_ circumstances for your lesson. Surely the next time you face the Dark Lord, you can invite him to a more appropriate setting.”

“I said I’m trying,” Harry muttered. After a look from Snape, he added sullenly, “Sir.”

“Very well, Potter, do _try_ harder,” Snape hissed, and raised his wand. “We shall try this again. On the count of three . . . one . . . two . . .”

Harry tried desperately to think of nothing, but he was staring directly at Snape, and he couldn’t help but think of how Snape had provoked Sirius in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, how he had taunted him. “ _Legilimens_!” Snape barked, and Harry stumbled backwards . . .

He was reaching for his broomstick in the Quidditch changing room . . . he was writing lines in Umbridge’s office as she smiled sweetly at him . . . Fudge was pumping his hand . . . Dudley was using his piggy arm to hold him underwater as he struggled in vain . . . Tonks was grinning at him as she said, languidly, “Come here” . . .

“How interesting,” Snape said coolly, one eyebrow raised in Harry’s direction. “I don’t believe that Blasting Curse was a conscious choice, was it, Potter?”

“No,” Harry admitted, though he was more worried about what Snape had seen of his memory of Tonks. What was it she had said to him? No one could get in trouble if they didn’t get caught? Well, if Snape saw any more, they were both in danger of getting caught, and Snape would not be one to allow Harry Potter to get out of trouble.

“Again,” Snape said, without waiting for Harry to recover. “One . . . two . . . three . . . _Legilimens_!”

He burst through the wall on Platform Nine and Three Quarters . . . Snuffles loped towards him with a newspaper in his mouth . . . Aunt Petunia handed him a plate containing only half a sausage and a teaspoonful of egg . . . Sirius was grinning at him as he polished a mirror . . . Harry reached out for the Snitch, its wings brushing his fingertips . . . Sirius arced backwards, falling, falling . . .

It stopped. He was on his knees in Snape’s office, the stone cold on the palms of his hands, and Snape was staring at him.

“Get up, Potter,” Snape hissed.

Harry clambered to his feet, wand at the ready. Snape stared at him coldly for a moment from where he stood, wand also in hand, his dark eyes unreadable. Then he said, voice steely, “Well, well, Potter. Perhaps you _have_ been practicing. That will be all for tonight, I think. You may go.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry managed, before he moved for the door and scrambled out of there.

It had taken him a moment to realize it, but Snape’s reluctant dismissal had told him everything. He had done it. He had finally done it. He had pushed Snape out of his mind without using any other magic than his own thoughts. He’d mastered Occlumency, or at least had done it once, which was enough to know that he could do it again. Even Snape had not a word to say against him.

Grinning, Harry set off for Gryffindor Tower, feeling better than he had in weeks.

He took all the stairs to the seventh floor as quickly as he could, so that by the time he burst into the common room, he was panting. There was no sight of Ron anywhere, but he spotted Hermione curled up in an armchair, Crookshanks on her lap.

“Hermione!”

She looked up from her knitting, along with several third-years crowding by the window, and gave him a look of such weight that the grin immediately left his face. “What is it?”

“Professor Lupin came by looking for you,” she said in a low voice, beckoning him closer to the fire, where no one else could hear. “He said I was to tell you what happened.”

Harry looked over at her, all former elation forgotten. He could tell that what Remus had told her wasn’t good news from the grave look on her face. “What is it?” he said again, more quietly.

Hermione sighed and petted Crookshanks absently as she spoke. “We were right about Hay-On-Wye,” she whispered. “There was an attack this morning. He said that we probably saved a lot of Muggles, because the Aurors there were forewarned. But several Aurors and Dumbledore’s brother were killed.”

“Killed?” Harry echoed, stricken. He remembered clearly how Dumbledore had murmured that Aberforth was the only family he had left. “But—Dumbledore—"

“That’s not the worst of it,” Hermione continued, casting a quick glance over her shoulder and then looking back to him. “Lucius Malfoy led the attack. Aurors were about to re-capture him when Bellatrix killed four. She and Malfoy both escaped.”

Harry felt a chill shoot through his stomach. “No sight of Voldemort?”

“Shh,” Hermione hissed, but shook her head. “No, and no giants, either, but Hagrid was right about one thing: the whole town was surrounded by Dementors. Muggles can’t see them, you know, and they were just swooping down on them—" She looked as if she were about to cry. “I just think about my parents, and how they wouldn’t know until the last minute, how they couldn’t even fight back. Oh, Harry, it’s horrible. But really, it could have been worse, couldn’t it have?”

 _Worse_ , Harry thought tiredly, _how much worse_? “It’ll be in the paper tomorrow, I expect.”

“That’s the other thing. Fudge wants it covered up. Nobody’s to know.”

“What?” Harry exclaimed, too shocked to keep his voice down. “But why? He’s already acknowledged that Voldemort is back, all the Prophet prints are letters from people who say they’ve seen him, and now he doesn’t want anyone to know?”

“He doesn’t think the public can handle it without panicking,” Hermione said, looking disapproving. “But Professor Lupin said that was a huge problem with the last war, that nobody but the Order knew what was going on, the media was full of lies. I suppose Fudge hasn’t learned his lesson.”

Harry frowned. “They’re talking about deposing him, I think,” he confessed, and he told Hermione what he had heard in Dumbledore’s office. “Dumbledore says he’s just in the way.”

“That’s certainly true,” Hermione said, frowning. “But who will lead us? Dumbledore? You know that some people will go into an outcry against him, call him a tyrant, say he’s trying to take over the whole magical world.”

“Well, I don’t think he wants to be Minister,” Harry began, but just then, Ron loped through the portrait hole, and Hermione waved him over urgently. Harry stared into the fire while Hermione told the whole story again. How many people would have died if he hadn’t heard Voldemort’s plans in his dream? Dreams weren’t trustworthy, but this one had been, hadn’t it? Without it, would Aberforth be dead? Would more? Dumbledore _had_ told him that his Occlumency lessons were to be put foremost, no matter what. But was that putting more people in danger?

“Harry,” Hermione said, interrupting his reverie, “I’m sorry, you were going to tell me something, too. What’d you come running in here for?”

“Oh,” Harry said, trying to look casual. “Nothing, Hermione. Never mind.”

That night, he purposely didn’t clear his mind before sleeping, but instead of thinking of Voldemort, his mind seemed intent on imagining Lucius Malfoy, in the midst of dueling with an Auror, maybe even Dumbledore’s brother. Harry imagined him laughing and felt sick. Was that the imagine in Malfoy’s mind when he conjured his Patronus? The same man he idolized enough to scare off a Dementor was the one who terrorized Muggles and was responsible for Aberforth’s death. In the picture in Harry’s mind, the figure of Lucius became shorter, and shifted into his son. He looked at Harry, eyes blazing, wand extended towards him.

Across the dormitory, he heard Neville mumble to himself, “Erumpent fluid, erumpent fluid . . . Bundimun secretion . . . got to remember that,” as he paged through his notes. Harry shook off the image of Malfoy and sighed. He was getting nowhere with this. He might as well just clear his mind and attempt to sleep. If he dreamt of Voldemort, so be it.

He didn’t dream of Voldemort, once he finally stopped tossing and turning and fell into a fitful sleep; he did, however, dream of Malfoy. He was standing in the middle of a field and had his wand pointed straight at Harry, looking just as determined as he did during their Defense sessions. But, as Harry watched, rooted to the spot, he saw Malfoy’s lips forming the words Avada Kedavra, as green light flashed around them . . .

“No!” Harry yelled, sitting upright in a flash. Across the room, Seamus gave a snort of surprise, but after a moment, it seemed he was still asleep. Breathing heavily, Harry lay back. It was still the middle of the night.

He shut his eyes, trying his best to push the dream from his mind, but, try as he might, he couldn’t erase the image of Malfoy staring at him, about to shout the Killing Curse. It had been so familiar, the same way they stood in the Room of Requirement, the way Malfoy raised his wand and opened his mouth . . .

It was hours before Harry fell back into a restless sleep.

“Well, well, somebody was up late,” Lisa observed in Potions, taking one look at him and raising an eyebrow. “What are you carrying in those bags under your eyes, Harry?”

“Not funny,” he muttered, busy getting out their ingredients for the day. “I couldn’t sleep, that’s all.”

“Oh?” Lisa said archly, giving him a wink. “Out late for a snog, were you?”

Harry snorted. “Having nightmares is more like it.”

“Precious Potty was having nightmares again,” Malfoy sniggered to Blaise, as they walked past Harry’s desk. He smirked down at Harry. “What’s the matter, Potter, somebody been _dogging_ your dreams?”

Harry was on his feet so fast that Lisa didn’t have time to restrain him. “You’ll shut your fat mouth right now if you know what’s good for you, Malfoy,” he snapped. Malfoy looked genuinely taken aback by the fury in Harry’s eyes, but before he had a chance to respond, Snape was sweeping towards them.

“Another altercation, Potter?” he said smoothly. “I think that will be five points from Gryffindor for harassing another student. Now sit down, unless you’d like detention for holding up the lesson.”

“No, sir,” Harry muttered, but Lisa had already pulled him back into his seat.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she whispered, her voice harsh. “You said you’d behave after we got no marks for that healing potion last week!”

“I’ll behave if he behaves,” Harry said, casting a dark look at Malfoy. “Oh, forget it. What do we have to do with this salamander blood?”

Snape reluctantly gave them close to full marks on their potion that day, which seemed to appease Lisa, and she was as close to cheerful as Harry had ever seen her when she bid him goodbye. Hermione was deep in conversation with Anthony when she walked out, so she didn’t even notice that Harry wasn’t following. Still, he didn’t mind; lately, he wanted more and more simply to be left alone.

Harry was the last one out of the Potions classroom, but when he exited, he saw Malfoy standing in the corridor, speaking in a low voice with Pansy Parkinson. Malfoy spotted him and narrowed his eyes.

“What was that all about today, Potter?” he asked, turning away from Pansy. “There was no need to get in such a snit, you know—"

Harry advanced on him, an exhilarating thrill of anger shooting through his body. “I don’t ever want to hear you talk about Sirius again,” he hissed. “Do you hear me?”

“Come to think of it, Potter, I don’t recall mentioning anybody named Sirius. You must be hearing things again. I was only inquiring after your dreams—"

“I don’t care what you were doing, Malfoy. Leave me alone.”

Malfoy frowned in genuine surprise. “But you said—"

The image of Malfoy’s father in the middle of Hay-On-Wye flashed again in his mind. Harry scowled. “I didn’t say anything!”

Malfoy was looking at him as if he might have lost his mind, and this civility, more than anything else, made Harry’s temper flare. “I’ve told Pansy,” Malfoy said sharply, as if that might be the only cause for Harry’s worry. “She knows, you don’t have to pretend—"

“Who’s pretending?” Harry nearly shouted. “What have you told her? Have you told her what happened in Wales? Have you told her how many people your dad killed yesterday?”

Malfoy had gone white. “What did you say about my father, Potter?”

“I said he’s a murderer,” Harry spat, but he had barely got the words out of his mouth before his world went white and pain exploded on the left side of his face. He could feel something wet above his mouth and, when he licked his upper lip, tasted blood.

Malfoy was staring at him, looking just as stunned as Harry was, as if he hadn’t imagined he could have it in him to actually punch Harry. Pansy was tugging on his other arm, screeching, “Draco, leave it, let’s go,” but he didn’t appear to hear her; he didn’t appear to notice anything else but Harry.

“Don’t you dare,” he snarled, “talk about him that way.”

“I’ll say whatever I want about him,” Harry sneered back, unaware of just how eerie he looked, blood dripping down his face. “What’ll you do about it, Malfoy? Run away? Because that’s what your dad did, you know that? Ran away like a filthy coward.”

Malfoy looked furious. “My father is not a coward,” he bit out, enunciating each word. “He’s twenty times the wizard your father ever was.”

Harry had his wand out before he even knew what he was doing, and before he could even process it, he had Malfoy pressed against the wall, the tip of his wand jabbed at Malfoy’s throat. “At least my father,” Harry said, low, “died a hero. When your dad dies, he’ll still be known as the scum he is.”

“Fuck you, Potter,” Malfoy hissed out. He was wide-eyed, backed up as far against the wall as he could go, and his eyes kept flickering down to Harry’s wand and back up to his face.

“Scared?” Harry demanded, his face throbbing. His voice sounded so strangled with anger that he hardly recognized it. “I haven’t forgotten that Cruciatus Curse, you know, Malfoy. But,” and here he leaned in as close as he dared, “the difference is that, me? I want to hurt you.”

“Potter,” Malfoy said again, faintly, almost a whine. This time his face was white with terror, and despite himself, Harry felt a surge of horror at his own actions. But before he could do anything, even step away—

“FIFTY POINTS FROM GRYFFINDOR,” Snape roared, striding out and forcibly pulling Harry back by his collar. Pansy stood at his side, looking frightened; Harry thought she must have darted in the classroom to alert him as soon as he and Malfoy went at it.

“You are a disgrace, Potter,” Snape continued, fixing Harry with his penetrating stare. “Threatening a fellow student, holding him at wandpoint—Draco, are you all right?”

Malfoy straightened his robes, still looking shaken. “Potter just attacked me,” he said shrilly, regaining composure as he spoke. “He insulted my father and came at me with his wand—"

“Attacked you?” Harry yelled, any remnants of remorse disappearing completely. “Professor Snape, my face is covered in blood!”

Snape stared at him for a long moment, and then said silkily, “Well, Potter, perhaps Madam Pomfrey will have something to say about your excessive clumsiness. Do try not to get any blood on the floor as you go.”

Harry gaped at him. “Professor—"

“I said _go_ , Potter,” Snape hissed. “And as for you, Miss Parkinson, I advise you to return to Slytherin. Draco and I need to have a word.”

Reluctantly, Harry pocketed his wand and put his hand to his nose, finally realizing how awful his face must look. He tried to take his time leaving, curious despite himself to hear what Snape might have to say, but Snape only gave him a sharp look and pulled Draco into the classroom. Harry heard what might have been, “You should know . . . your father in . . .” but just then, the door slammed shut, and Harry was left alone in the empty hallway.

He had been a fool to ever have entertained the notion of doing anything with Malfoy except loathing him. That was who Malfoy was: Lucius Malfoy’s son. He would never be anything else. And someday, it might be Malfoy on the other end of Harry’s wand, the way it had been today, only without Snape to stop them. Or it might be Malfoy with his wand at Harry’s throat. The thought of the prophecy sprung unbidden to Harry’s mind, and he thought darkly, _kill or be killed_. . .

With a sigh, he headed upstairs to the hospital wing. The Gryffindor-Slytherin match was the next day, and Jack would kill him if he came looking like this.

When the Gryffindor Quidditch team assembled in the changing room on the morning of the match, Jack was already there, pacing agitatedly from one end to the other. As they crowded around him for last minute instructions, Harry noticed just how manic he looked, as if he were equally likely to run laps around the pitch or burst into tears any minute.

“I think Jack’s lost it,” Ron whispered to him, grinning, although he, too, looked a bit peaky, and the rest of the team not much better. They had been doing all right, but their last practice had ended with Andrew accidentally knocking Natalie off her broom and Ron narrowly missing running into a goalpost, so none of them felt overconfident about a Gryffindor win.

“So, look,” Jack said, sounding about as confident as Neville in Potions class, “we’ve got to win today, got that? We’ve _got_ to.”

“I think we’re all in agreement on that,” Katie Bell said dryly, double-checking the straps on her gloves. “Hey, buck up, Natalie, you’ll do great.”

Natalie MacDonald looked about as green as Ron had during his first match, while Ron looked profoundly grateful that he wasn’t the one who had never played before. “But Malcolm Baddock said he’ll break both my arms if we win,” Natalie said faintly. The very mention of it made her look more ill.

“Just let him try,” Ginny said fiercely, before anyone else could reply. There was a murmur of agreement, and Jack slapped Natalie a bit too heartily on the shoulder.

“It’s almost time,” he said, eyes glinting, “come on, come on, good luck, everybody . . .”

Shouldering his broom, Harry marched out of the changing room just after Ron, followed by the string of Chasers: Ginny and Katie gave Natalie’s arm a quick squeeze before she went and she looked slightly bolstered, though her eyes were still wide and scared.

Slytherin was waiting for them, and Harry was shocked to see Malfoy at the front of them, sneering hard as Jack approached. “ _Malfoy_ ’s captain?” he heard Ron gasp beside him, and Harry exchanged a disgusted look with Ron before they turned back to see Jack and Malfoy shake hands. They both gripped each other’s hands until they were white-knuckled, but Jack looked no less wild-eyed as he turned to mount his broom on Madam Hooch’s instructions.

“Good luck, mate,” Ron muttered to Harry, looking both queasy and determined, and then the whistle blew and they shot into the sky, Ron heading towards the goalhoops.

“Gryffindor’s got the Quaffle!” shouted Stewart Ackerley, a Ravenclaw who had taken over commenting from Lee Jordan. “That’s seventh year Katie Bell with the Quaffle—and Pritchard’s after her, but—oh, narrowly misses a Bludger from Goyle! Nicely done, Bell—a pass to Ginny Weasley—there she goes—"

Harry lapped the pitch, keeping his eyes peeled for any sight of the Snitch, but he saw nothing yet, only Malfoy, speeding by on the opposite side, and at the sight of him, Harry’s blood boiled. He zoomed higher, passing over Ginny’s head as she dodged out of Malcolm Baddock’s way, and made for the Slytherin goalhoops.

“—and it’s Weasley with the Quaffle still—oh, close call from Baddock—and MacDonald comes up on the right, Natalie MacDonald of Gryffindor—Crabbe close behind—and it’s a pass to Natalie!”

Higher up, Harry saw what was going to happen, but he knew any attempt he made to call out would be swept away by the wind. Just as Natalie went to shoot, Goyle knocked her from the side with the Bludger, and she dropped the Quaffle right into Pritchard’s waiting arms. Even from across the pitch, Harry could see Jack cursing as he sped after Pritchard.

“And Pritchard of Slytherin takes the Quaffle! But Kirke is after him—Slytherin speeds towards Gryffindor’s goal—Bludger to the head for Pritchard, and he’s—well, he’s still got the Quaffle, off he goes again—"

 _Good luck, Ron_ , Harry thought vehemently, as he lapped past Malfoy again. You can do it. Down in the Gryffindor stands, everyone seemed to be yelling the same thing, and he thought he saw Hermione’s face beaming upwards as he sped by.

“—Pritchard passes, and—oh, interception from Gryffindor, a nice save from Ginny Weasley! Back towards Slytherin, and she dodges Baddock, nice turn there, ready to—oh, that must’ve hurt, Bludger to the side—now Baddock’s got it, there they go—throws to Pucey, who dodges MacDonald—oh, and it’s back to Baddock now, great bit of teamwork there—and he’s heading for goal, he’s shooting—Ron Weasley as Keeper, stretches out to block—"

But Ron had overestimated, and the Quaffle shot right through his open arms and into the left hoop. “SLYTHERIN SCORE,” Ackerley roared, and the Slytherin stands erupted in cheers.

Across the pitch, Malfoy seemed to have had no luck sighting the Snitch either, and he was watching Harry closely as he sped towards the Gryffindor end of the pitch. Harry went into a dive just as he heard Ackerley yelling about a foul from Pucey, and when he leveled out, he found that Malfoy had shot after him, no doubt thinking he’d caught a glimpse of the Snitch.

“How’s your nose, Potter?” he jeered, flying up alongside Harry. “Is that why you’re flying all the way down here? Nobody want to look at your ugly face?”

Harry looked away, determined to ignore him. Instead, he continued to scan the pitch for any sight of gold, but there was nothing.

“Pity you can’t keep your temper to yourself, Potter,” Malfoy continued. “The next thing you know, you’ll cause such a scene that you’ll be banned permanently from Quidditch. Except, oh, wait, that already happened. Ha ha ha.”

“The Ministry rescinded it,” Harry replied stiffly, not looking at him. “Along with all of Umbridge’s stupid decrees.”

“GRYFFINDOR SCORE!” Ackerley shouted from the stands, and at the sound of that, Harry felt slightly bolstered. “That makes it forty-ten, Slytherin, but here comes Kirke—Quaffle to Bell, off she goes again—will it be forty-twenty? She shoots—and a block from Bletchley, who passes the Quaffle to Baddock—they’re off again—"

“You need to watch your temper,” Malfoy shouted through the wind to him, sneering as they rounded the corner by the Slytherin goalhoops and sped off on a curve, “I’d hate to think you would get so worked up about a couple of Muggles in Wales—"

“Maybe if you shut up long enough to look for the Snitch, you might actually catch it,” Harry retorted, and was about to veer off to the left when he saw a Bludger careening towards him, and narrowly avoided it by shooting upwards—then he saw it, glinting in the sun, hovering above them in the air—without looking at Malfoy, not knowing if he’d seen it or not, he shot off like a bolt, straight up—

Malfoy had either caught sight of the Snitch or of Harry’s rapid motion, and instantly he was chasing after him, outstretched hand even with the tail of Harry’s broom—Harry could hear him panting desperately behind him as his hand scrabbled beside Harry’s knee—Harry’s hip—

“Looks like the Seekers have spotted the Snitch,” Ackerley was booming, his voice mingling with the crowd’s screams to create a dull roar in Harry’s ears. “Harry Potter’s in the lead for Gryffindor—but Draco Malfoy’s fast on his heels—"

They were both careening desperately upwards, Harry’s right hand clenched tight around his broom as his left, closer to the Snitch, extended out to grab it—he was so close, Malfoy grasping beside him, his fingers grabbing desperately at the air—

“HARRY POTTER’S GOT THE SNITCH,” Ackerley shouted out as Harry’s fingers closed, at last, around the tiny ball. Its wings tickled his fingers and he clenched it tightly, just as Malfoy’s hand closed around his wrist and wrenched so hard that he almost lost his balance.

“So much for your great Slytherin win,” Harry hissed, shaking Malfoy off as he leveled out his broom. “I told you that you could never beat me—"

THUD.

Harry saw black.

The next thing he knew, he was cartwheeling wildly through the air, broom suspended above him, along with Malfoy’s pale, startled face–

“ _Impedimenta_!” someone shouted. Finally his fall slowed to the pace of a feather, and he found himself drifting on air. He was gasping from the shock of it, though, and by the time he settled safely onto the pitch, his heart was still hammering, his body still convinced that he was going to continue plummeting through the sky, probably to die on impact.

He sat up woozily.

Of all people, Malfoy was the first one to reach him, apparently having dived immediately from the sky. Rather than triumphant, his pointy face looked white, as if he’d just had quite a scare, too. “Potter,” he said, too shocked to be belligerent, “are you all right, Potter?”

But before Harry could answer, Ginny and Natalie landed with thumps beside him, and Ginny immediately seized him. “Harry, are you all right? You scared us so badly—we thought you were going to die—do you still have the Snitch? Oh, Harry! We won, we won!”

“Leave him be,” Madam Hooch said briskly, approaching them, “the boy needs room to breathe—there, Potter, how are you feeling? No injuries? Good, good. Clever trick of young Malfoy’s, wasn’t it? Of course, I was about to cast a Floating Spell—but quick thinking anyway—"

 _I taught that jinx to him_ , Harry thought blankly, feeling dazed by all that had just happened. He still had the Snitch fluttering in his fist, and as soon as Hooch announced that he was fine, the Gryffindor team gathered around him, cheering and whistling.

It was all a blur to Harry. He stared at Malfoy through the growing crowd. Malfoy’s pale face stared back at him, expressionless, and then Ron pushed him aside to get to Harry, and he was gone.

People were still talking about the Quidditch match two weeks later, when the second Hogsmeade weekend came around. Harry must have heard from half the school how both Goyle and Crabbe had sent Bludgers flying at him, and several eager fourth-year boys eagerly mimed the way he had fallen off his broom while eating dinner, until Hermione told them in a no-nonsense tone to get back in their seats. The castle was buzzing with the story of Malfoy’s intervention, as well, though most of the rumors in Gryffindor were that Malfoy had hidden his wand so he could hex Harry, or perform some other, worse, Quidditch foul. One of the favorite theories held that the entire thing had been planned and Malfoy had ordered Crabbe and Goyle to aim for Harry, so that Malfoy could act the hero. This didn’t make much sense, however, and no one outside Gryffindor believed it, though Colin and Dennis Creevey could be heard insisting to several people that it was the truth.

Still, even Ron admitted that it was strange for Malfoy, of all people, to have been the person to save Harry from his fall.

“Of course,” he pointed out, for the umpteenth time, as they walked towards Hogsmeade, “Madam Hooch would have saved you, of course, or anyone in the stands. So you don’t owe him anything, Harry, if you’re getting any ideas.”

“I know,” Harry said, but he didn’t look at Ron.

He’d tried to talk to Malfoy again, after the match, but Malfoy seemed to be avoiding him. When he did see him, such as in Potions, he tried to catch Malfoy’s attention, but Malfoy only sneered and told him, in an echo of Harry’s previous words, “I don’t care, Potter. Leave me alone.”

“Where did Tonks say she would meet you?” Hermione asked, interrupting his contemplation. “I’ve got to buy some more ink, but we’ll meet you afterwards, if you’d like.”

“The Three Broomsticks,” Harry said, flushing without knowing why. Everything that had happened with Tonks seemed so far away, as if it had happened a year ago, or more. “I suppose I’ll see you later—I mean, you can come too, that is—"

Ron and Hermione both looked at him suspiciously, and Harry was terrified for a moment that they had both guessed about what had really happened between him and Tonks. “Like I said, I have to find more ink,” Hermione said, after a moment, and Harry let out the breath he’d been holding. Ron added, “I promised Seamus we’d go to Zonko’s, but maybe later.”

Harry wasn’t sure if he was relieved or not.

Tonks was at the bar of The Three Broomsticks when Harry entered; she was chatting pleasantly with Madam Rosmerta, who was giggling at something Tonks had said. Tonks was wearing a skirt over outrageously striped tights, which were cut off mid-calf by large boots. When she turned around to see him, he saw the word SPELLSHOCK emblazoned on her shirt, presumably a band, from the moving silhouette of a drummer banging silently on a drum set above the words. For an instant, when she turned towards him, she looked utterly exhausted, but then her face cleared and he wondered if he’d been imagining things. “Wotcher, Harry,” she said cheerfully, and gave Madam Rosmerta a parting smile before sauntering over to him.

“How’s the Potions going?” she inquired, winking. Harry flushed.

“Fine,” he muttered. It felt impolite to jump into telling her that he knew about what had happened in Wales, but he suddenly had no idea what else to say. “Um, how are you?”

“Knackered,” Tonks said, propping her legs up on the empty chair beside her. “Mad-Eye’s like a machine, you know, thinks all of us are built to run on no sleep. I’m lucky I could get away for an hour or two, the way he’s got us all running about.”

“Oh,” Harry said, embarrassed, “well, you didn’t have to come.”

Tonks snorted. “I’m the one who invited you, and you’re apologizing. Don’t be daft. What d’you want to drink? I’ll get you something, if you like—never been a fan of Ogden’s Old Firewhiskey, it’s got a bit of a bite, but I hear it’s a favorite—"

“I’ll just have Butterbeer,” Harry told her quickly. He wondered what would happen if someone like Professor McGonagall walked in and saw him drinking Firewhiskey with his former Professor.

“A boring favorite,” Tonks said, rolling her eyes, and signaled to Madam Rosmerta. “Well, it seems as if you’ve been up to plenty since I left you. I’ve only heard the dramatic saga of your Quidditch match, oh, three or four times now.”

“What?” Harry exclaimed. “But—from who? When?”

Tonks laughed. “Well, Arthur Weasley told the lot of us, I guess he heard it from his kids—and then I saw Oliver Wood the other day, turns out he’d heard the tale, too—"

“Oliver Wood?” Harry repeated, feeling a little ill. Oliver Wood was out there telling people about how Harry Potter had nearly died because he fell off his broom? The thought made him slightly queasy. “I suppose everybody’s laughing at me, then—how Harry Potter fell off his broom.”

“Oh, no,” Tonks said. “Everybody thinks you’re a hero. Caught the Snitch, hit by Bludgers, nearly died . . . it’s just what your public wants to hear.”

“I don’t have a public,” Harry muttered, feeling uncomfortable. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

Tonks’s eyes were twinkling. “Oh, but if Oliver Wood of Puddlemere United Reserves thinks it’s a big deal, that’s quite a big deal indeed,” she said. “Anyway, I was out with Kirley the other night, and he seemed to think it was a good story—"

“Kirley?”

“Kirley McCormack Duke,” Tonks said. “He plays lead guitar in the Weird Sisters, you might have heard them on the WWN—"

“Yeah,” Harry said faintly, “I—I know who the Weird Sisters are—you know him? And, wait, you talked about me?”

Tonks was grinning. “Kirley and I go way back. It’s a bit of a long story. But anyway, of course we talked about you. He was quite interested when he heard I met you, you know. Owled me straightaway.”

“He knows my name?” Harry said, wishing he didn’t sound quite so breathless. He was practically worse than Lavender and Parvati.

Tonks only laughed. “Everybody knows your name,” she said. And then, more hushed, “And he was quite interested when he heard what happened, you know, that night—"

Harry exclaimed, forgetting to be quiet, “ _You told him that_?”

“Oh, not too explicitly,” Tonks said, winking across the table at him.

Harry knew he was flushing, and when Madam Rosmerta set his Butterbeer on the table, he gave her a profoundly grateful look. Uncapping the bottle, he took several swigs of it before he was finally able to look at Tonks again.

“Er,” he said, hoping the subject change wasn’t too drastic, “I know what’s in Wales now.”

Tonks looked shocked for a moment, and her eyes shifted away uncomfortably, but after a moment she looked back at him again. “Been doing your research, have you?” Tonks said appraisingly. “I’ll bet Hermione helped you there.”

“Well, Hagrid told us,” Harry said. “And—I had a dream, I heard Voldemort talking about Hay-On-Wye—"

Tonks gave him a sharp look. “You might be Harry Potter, but you should know better than to say his name in a public place like this,” she scolded, casting a pointed look to the table next to them. Harry followed her gaze to see a witch hastily mopping at her robes where she’d slopped her drink at the sound of Voldemort’s name. “Just because you aren’t scared of him doesn’t mean other people aren’t.”

Harry wondered if Tonks were scared of Voldemort. She didn’t seem like the type of person to be scared of anyone.

“Anyway,” he said, “Dumbledore told me what happened there.” He wasn’t exactly in the mood to talk about the war and Lucius Malfoy, but it seemed preferable to talk of how he’d fallen off his broom and anything remotely relating to the blow job Tonks had given him. “About—about his brother.”

“Odd man, Aberforth,” Tonks mused. “Sad to see him go, though. He always said the strangest things—"

“I met him at the Hog’s Head once,” Harry said, to stem any reminiscences Tonks might have been inclined to share. He had heard so many stories told to him about people who were killed by Voldemort, and it only served to remind him that he was either destined to be one of them or had to kill Voldemort first. The thought of either in his future was not a pleasant one. “Tell me about things in Wales,” Harry suggested instead.

He listened to Tonks talk for awhile, but either she didn’t know much of what was going on or was determined not to tell him. It could have been the latter, because of the way she kept stopping in the middle of sentences and giving him strange looks, but for once, Harry didn’t care to know more. After hearing about Moody’s detailed plan to scour all the mountains for Death Eaters using search nets composed of six Aurors each and a color-coded system of sparks, Harry interrupted, “And no sign of Lucius Malfoy?”

“Shh,” Tonks hissed again, “you can never be sure who’s listening!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry said. “I guess nobody’s caught him, then.”

“Not yet,” Tonks said and looked uncomfortable. “Hey, Harry, aren’t you tired of thinking about You-Know-Who all the time? We could, you know, go somewhere—"

Harry colored at her sudden change of subject, and he said quickly, “I, um, actually have to meet somebody soon—if it’s not a problem—"

“Oh, no problem,” Tonks said, looking disappointed, though not overly so. “Who’re you meeting, then? Is it a girl?”

“Well,” Harry began, trying to think of a credible lie, but just then, a tall man Harry had never seen before approached the table. He had hair that fell to his shoulders, almost like Snape’s, though his was clean and well-kempt. “Well, now, is that Nymphadora?” he said, smiling widely. His voice was pleasantly smooth, and his eyes flickered politely towards Harry. “Illustrious company, I see.”

“Hello there,” Tonks said, looking up at him. She added agreeably, “It has been a long time, hasn’t it? Harry was just leaving, actually.”

“Then I’m pleased to take his place,” the man said, eyes flickering back to Harry once more. “Harry Potter. It’s not every day I see your like.”

Harry wasn’t exactly sure how to take that, and merely gave him what passed for an embarrassed smile. Some feeling in the room had changed, and he wasn’t certain he liked it. Still, he had no choice but to rise and offer the man his seat; he had, after all, insisted that he was leaving.

“Send me an owl or two, Harry,” Tonks winked at him. “I’ll be sure to pass it on to Kirley.”

“Okay,” Harry said, reddening, unsure of how much this man knew. “Um, ’bye, Tonks. Um, good luck. With. Things.”

Making his way towards the door, Harry saw the man lean forward and say something low to Tonks. He frowned, worried for an instant, but then glimpsed Tonks’s wand in her pocket. What was he thinking? She was an Auror. She could take care of herself. And besides, they sounded as if they were old friends. Harry was turning paranoid, seeing spies in every stranger he saw.

Still, he was preoccupied with whom the man could be when he stepped out of The Three Broomsticks into the bright November cold, and he was caught entirely off guard when Malfoy seized him by the elbow and dragged him around the side of the building.

“What are you doing?” Harry hissed, heart thumping. For a moment, thoughts still on Tonks’s friend, he had thought it was someone who was after him. “Why are you here?”

“It is a Hogsmeade weekend, Potter,” Malfoy drawled. “I do believe it’s entirely within my rights to be here.”

“I mean,” Harry said pointedly, “why are you here, waiting to drag me into a dark corner?”

Malfoy flushed. “Look,” he said, after a moment, “I wanted to talk to you.”

There was another long pause. Harry stared at him. “Well?”

“Potter,” Malfoy said, very quickly, “I didn’t know anything about the attack, all right? I haven’t heard from my father since June. And then you said something, and I thought you knew about him, and I didn’t know anything.”

Expressionless, Harry said, “So you punched me.”

“You called my father a murderer,” Malfoy said, in a tight voice.

“ _He is_.”

“And I’m not him!” Malfoy snapped. It shocked Harry so much to hear Malfoy willingly admit that he was, or could be, different from his father, that he simply stared at him. “Look,” Malfoy said, taking his silence for impatience, “so I just wanted to know if we could . . . well . . .”

“Study together again?” Harry prompted.

“Since you’re offering so nicely,” Malfoy smirked back at him.

Harry frowned. This was Malfoy. Malfoy, who had punched him. Malfoy, who insulted Harry’s parents and Harry’s friends every chance he got. Malfoy, who had inexplicably saved his life. Malfoy, who, even more inexplicably, some part of Harry still wanted to kiss.

He said, "Okay."

“Okay?”

“That’s what I said,” Harry snapped. “When? Tuesday? I can’t on Monday, I promised Lisa I’d work with her—"

“I’m rather busy this week,” Malfoy said, glancing around them, as if someone would walk by and overhear. “Can we do it now?”

“What?” Harry exclaimed, as if he’d misheard him. “You mean, now?”

Malfoy sneered at him. “I said now, Potter, are you deaf? What’s the matter, have you got to meet Weasley in Zonko’s to snigger like first years over some pathetic jokes? Or do you just wander around looking for people to give money to?”

“Well,” Harry began, realizing with shock that there wasn’t anything else he’d rather be doing. Ginny was right when she insisted Fred’s and George’s shop was better than Zonko’s, and besides, he’d been inside the shop more times than he could count. And he hadn’t _promised_ Hermione that he would meet them, only said that it was a possibility . . .

Malfoy was looking at him with impatience. “Well?”

“Yeah, now’s okay,” Harry agreed, glancing down the street towards Honeydukes. He stepped out into the street, heading in that direction.

“Potter,” Malfoy said scathingly, still half in the shadows, “are you thick? Hogwarts is the other way.”

Harry paused. Was he really going to trust the knowledge of the tunnel to Malfoy? Malfoy _could_ ostensibly get him into trouble for it. And, well, it was Malfoy. What was next, letting him borrow Harry’s Invisibility Cloak? Lending him his broomstick?

“Look, I know a shortcut,” he said, after hesitating a moment. “This way, Malfoy. Come on.”

It was late afternoon, and the cool November light streamed in through the windows of the Room of Requirement, one of the beams falling right across Harry’s lap where he sat on the sofa. He had his wand out, but it was lying loose in the hand that rested on the armrest, and he was busy watching Malfoy.

“ _Incarcerous_ ,” Malfoy said loudly, and several thin ropes appeared to wrap themselves around the pile of books they had assembled earlier. “Oh no, now they’re not thick enough—"

“Try again,” Harry said calmly. Scowling, Malfoy did; this time, they snapped upon contact. He kicked at the side of the sofa in irritation.

Harry told Malfoy to practice the spell again and watched him, though his gaze turned from analyzing Malfoy’s technique to watching the way his hair slipped and he tossed his head unconsciously to get it out of his eyes, the smooth lines of his forearms as he cast. Harry was fully absorbed in staring at the other boy when Malfoy said impatiently, “Well?”

“What?”

“Are you paying attention or not?” he demanded irritably. “Was it all right?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, startled again by the lack of rancor in their voices. It was so easy not to hate him when he wasn’t being purposely disagreeable. Why did he have to make it so hard? “It was fine.”

Malfoy flung himself onto the couch beside Harry and shut his eyes, hair falling every which way. “I’m getting better, aren’t I?” He spoke without opening his eyes, but his voice was smug, and Harry watched the sure curve of his throat as he talked. Malfoy had flopped haphazardly down, and his knee was nearly touching Harry’s. Sure he could almost feel the warmth of it, so close to pressing against his, Harry was absurdly torn between moving his leg closer and shifting it away.

“You’re pretty good,” Harry admitted, wishing his voice didn’t sound so shaky. Malfoy was good. It wasn’t that he was bad at Defense; he simply hadn’t had the same practice, which left him behind most of the DA members. But, as Harry was learning, he was quick to catch up.

“What is it?” Malfoy was looking strangely at him, eyes open now; Harry was staring.

“Nothing,” Harry said quickly, and then, softer, “Malfoy.” There was something sleepy and subdued about the way Malfoy was lying, and Harry was overcome by the urge to brush his hand over Malfoy’s jaw, slide a thumb over his cheekbone. He wondered what Malfoy would do.

Just then, Malfoy shifted and his knee knocked against Harry’s.

“Sorry,” he said, oblivious, and resettled.

If the moment didn’t end, Harry thought he might die. He felt unnervingly close to Malfoy. He wanted to touch his knee with his. Touch the thin, pale angles of his wrists. He wanted—

“Harry?”

The familiar, unexpected sound of Hermione’s voice startled him badly, and he leapt to his feet. It seemed to have affected Malfoy the same way, because he sat bolt upright.

The door cracked open a little more and Hermione called again, “Harry?”

Harry thought for a split second of hiding, hoping she would go away, but it was useless, and he said with resignation, “In here, Hermione.”

She pushed the door open and came in, looking apologetic and anxious at the same time. For some reason, she didn’t look startled at all to find Draco Malfoy sitting there. Harry wondered for a second how much she’d surmised, but then he caught sight of the folded map in her hand. She must have seen him looking, because she said, flustered, “Oh, Harry, I’m sorry for taking your map, and I’m sorry for interrupting you, but I just had to find you.”

“I can’t imagine what's got your knickers in such a twist, Granger,” Malfoy drawled before Harry could answer. “Have you finally found a cure for looking like a horse?”

Hermione gave him a sharp look, but refused to acknowledge his remark directly. “I think you’ll find what I have to say of interest to you as well, Malfoy,” she said evenly. “There’s been an attack on Hogsmeade. Aurors are patrolling now, and all of the injured parties are with Madam Pomfrey, but I’m afraid—" She wavered. “Three people were killed.”

There was a roaring in Harry’s ears, and he felt, for a moment, as if he couldn’t stand up. He asked, hoarsely, terrified, “Who were they?”

It seemed for a moment as if Hermione wasn’t going to answer, she was so silent. Then, tears springing to her eyes, she said, very quietly, “Dennis Creevey, Seamus Finnegan, and Professor Snape.”


	5. Chapter 5

Madam Pomfrey was in a near-frantic state when Harry and Hermione peeked their heads in the door, and she motioned them quickly into the room. “He’s in the bed by the window,” she said briskly, arms full of several glass bottles and a roll of bandages. “Don’t be long, now, it’s getting late,” and she bustled off to tend to a still-unconscious seventh year with a bad burn mark on her face.

Ron was awake when they crept around the curtain of his bed, and his face lit up when he saw them. “Harry,” he exclaimed. “We were afraid—you might have been caught in the attack—"

“I came back early,” Harry said quietly, not daring to look at Hermione. Now was not the time to explain to Ron why, exactly, he had returned to the castle so early. “How’s your leg?”

“Mostly mended,” Ron shrugged. “I’m supposed to stay overnight so she can keep an eye on me. I’m probably the best off, considering who’s here; did you see Kevin Entwhistle? Whole body covered in burns. I’ll bet he was hurt the worst.” There was a pause, until Ron realized what he said, and amended soberly, “I mean, except for Seamus and Dennis and Snape.”

“What happened?” Harry asked, hating the grave look on Ron’s face. He sat down in the chair beside Ron, while Hermione perched at the foot of the bed. Hermione had not had time to tell him very much as they rushed to the hospital wing. And Malfoy had not waited to hear more; he had bolted as soon as Hermione spoke, face chalky.

Ron glanced up as Madam Pomfrey dropped something across the room, which clattered loudly on the floor. Then he said, “It’s hard to say when it started. Hermione and I were in Dervish & Banges when we heard the screaming. We were looking for you, so we thought immediately you were in the middle of the attack.”

Harry felt a flash of guilt for his absence.

“We ran up the street towards the Three Broomsticks,” Ron continued, “but by that time, people were fighting in the street by the post office and Honeydukes. There were huge crowds of smoke and sparks everywhere—we couldn’t see anyone, people were just running by. I remember Hannah Abbott ran past me and grabbed onto my arm, looking like she’d just seen You-Know-Who himself. She didn’t, though,” he assured Harry, after Harry gave him a shocked look, “he wasn’t there, I don’t think. Just a lot of Death Eaters—Tonks was there dueling with one of them—I saw McGonagall firing spells, she had a group of third-years huddled behind her—"

Hermione said, very quietly, “Tell him about Snape.”

“Right,” Ron said, “I know Snape was rotten—oh, Hermione, just because he’s dead doesn’t mean he’s my favorite teacher—but, Harry, he was brilliant. He saved loads of people, probably. He was just standing there in the middle of the street, hexing Death Eaters left and right. I know he saved Neville’s life, at least. Somebody, I couldn’t see who, hit him with some awful spell, nobody heard what it was—it was mad, everybody was screaming and running, we couldn’t see a thing—and Snape was shouting and then he was on the ground.”

“I thought he was just unconscious,” Hermione said, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “I tried to get closer, but that’s when Ron was hit with an Impediment Jinx and got knocked into the steps of Honeydukes, and by the time I’d made sure he was all right, everything was over.”

Harry said hesitantly, “Seamus and Dennis?”

“Seamus was one of the first ones to die,” Ron told him. He sounded a bit strangled. “I didn’t see it, but he and Ginny and Dean had just been in Honeydukes, they were eating Fizzing Whizbees—Seamus floated up higher than the rest of them, and the next thing they knew, he was—he was—"

Hermione put a hand on Ron’s knee and he quieted, unable to finish. “Dennis had been in the Three Broomsticks,” she continued for Ron. “He was running down the street to get away from them and they shattered the post office window. He was just—full of glass—" She cut off, too, looking distressed. “I’m the one who found him, I’m the one who had to tell Colin that he didn’t have a pulse—"

Harry felt something tight in his throat and he swallowed several times. “I should have been there,” he finally managed to say.

“Oh, Harry, don’t say that,” Hermione said gently. “You’re lucky that you weren’t. They were probably there for you.”

“But I could have done something!” Harry protested, hands clenching desperately in his lap. “I could’ve—I could’ve saved them—"

“No, you couldn’t’ve,” Ron said. He sounded annoyed. “Harry, you can’t save everybody. And we’re just as good at defense as you are. Well, nearly, anyway. You couldn’t’ve done anything more than we did, or Snape did, or McGonagall—"

“I wasn’t saying that,” Harry said sharply. “Look, I just meant, it’s my fight, isn’t it? And I wasn’t there.”

“Well, there’s nothing you can do about it now,” Ron snapped.

Hermione looked distressed. “You’re probably tired, Ron,” she appealed, “and Harry, it’s been a long day—"

“I’ve got to go,” Harry said, getting up suddenly, trying not to see the looks on their faces. “I’ll—I’ll see you tomorrow, Ron—I hope your leg’s okay—" Before either could respond, he dashed out of there, barely missing Madam Pomfrey as she staggered from her office laden with salve. Up the stairs . . . second left . . . up again . . .

He was breathing hard, just trying not to think. Desperately, he stalked back and forth before the wall where the Room of Requirement sometimes was, thinking urgently, _I need a place where they won’t come looking, I’ve just got to be by myself—_ Yes, there was the door, and he seized it, hurtling inside.

He had to kill Voldemort. Now he knew: that was the only way. He couldn’t just stay here at Hogwarts, sitting docile in Transfiguration or Potions, while each day brought those near him closer to death. More would die, and it would be his fault. Already, the list was growing longer: first Cedric, then Sirius, then Dudley, now Seamus and Dennis and Snape. Snape, who hated Harry, whom Harry hated. He had died a hero, for Harry’s sake, two things which he would have abhorred.

More people would die. The only way was to end it now.

_But if you die_ , his mind suggested insidiously, _then who will save them? Voldemort will be unstoppable._

_Besides_ , suggested another, more doubting thought, _you couldn’t even cast Cruciatus on Bellatrix. How do you suppose you’ll take down the Dark Lord?_

“I have to go,” Harry hissed resolutely, pushing down his rising doubts. “I can’t stay here.”

He heard a sound behind him and whirled, ready to confront Voldemort himself. Instead, Malfoy stood there, arms folded. Looking decidedly unimpressed, he said, “Where are you running to now, Potter?”

Harry was too shocked to answer. “What are you doing here?”

“The same as you, I suspect,” Malfoy said. “Why can’t you stay here? Are you being expelled?”

“Why would I be expelled?” Harry snapped, starting to pace. “It’s none of your business where I’m going, Malfoy. Sod off. I’m the one who showed you this place, anyway. Find your own room.”

“You don’t seem to have it reserved,” Malfoy smirked. “So I think I’ll stay. Your hospitality is just that convincing.”

“Go away,” Harry hissed, turning sharply towards the window. Outside, snow was beginning to fall, and he could hear the wind whipping around the towers. It was a bleak scene, sullen and defiant, and it fit Harry’s mood exactly.

From behind him, Malfoy said, “You’re thick if you think this is your fault, Potter.”

“You don’t know anything about it,” Harry shouted, spinning to face him. “What are you doing here anyway, gloating?”

Malfoy gaped at him. “Excuse me?” he snarled. “Professor Snape was my _friend_. He was the only worthwhile teacher in this sorry excuse for a school, and Slytherin is going to miss him more than the rest of the school combined, so you can stop skulking around like your mum just died and shut your mouth, Potter!”

Taken aback, Harry was silent for a moment. “My friends died too,” he said eventually, but there was something halfhearted about it, and he kicked at the edge of the wooden chair in front of him.

"Snape was like a father to me," Malfoy said, bitterly, and then, without looking up, added, "Now you've managed to take away both of them, haven't you?"

Harry kicked at chair again. "Look,” he muttered, sullen. “I didn't want him to die, all right? Well, and you've got your mum, that's better than I've got."

"Some consolation," Malfoy said angrily. "What are _you_ moping about, anyhow?"

For a moment, Harry just stared at him.

"THREE PEOPLE JUST DIED, MALFOY," he shouted, kicking so hard at the chair that it rocked sideways and looked close to collapse. "And, as you just reminded me, it's clearly my fault! You think you've got it bad? Your father was in Azkaban and Snape is gone now, too? My parents are dead! And the man who was like my father is dead now, too! How do you think that feels, Malfoy? Oh, you can blame it on me, can't you? It's my fault, not yours? Thanks to me, Sirius died, and Cedric, and Dudley, and Seamus, and—"

"Lord, listen to yourself," Malfoy drawled, sounding precariously close to boredom. "Stop being ridiculous.”

Harry found himself taken utterly by surprise. He stared again at Malfoy, unable to find the words that had just been pouring out of him. “Look,” he began loudly.

“No, you look,” Malfoy hissed. "This is what the great hero comes down to? Is this what you do when people die? No wonder Diggory died, if your best solution to problems is sulking in an empty room. You're _pathetic_."

"I am not sulking," Harry bit out, clenching his fists. Of course he would bring up Cedric. Why not? Harry had got him killed, too. Why not talk about Sirius? Or Dudley? Why not mention Harry's parents, while they were at it? Oh, yes, Draco Malfoy would surely think that was funny: no Voldemort necessary, just knowing Harry Potter puts you in the path of imminent death. He turned sharply, back to the window, and glowered. "You don't know anything about me, Malfoy, so why don't you leave well enough alone and go away? I have enough—"

Malfoy's lip curled. "Oh, yes, that's right. I forgot." His voice rose in mockery. "I have enough to do. I'm Harry Potter, I'm so special, the Dark Lord wants to kill me, so everything’s my fault." He paused. "Get over yourself, Potter. You’re the one who has no clue what’s going on."

"You're the one who needs to get over himself!"

“I’m not the one who thinks everything revolves around me!” Malfoy shouted. “You keep reciting all these names like you’re personally responsible when there’s nothing you could have done! You’re not responsible for every single person in the world, Potter, and if you’re big-headed enough to think so—"

“It’s called common decency!” Harry seethed. “Not that you would know anything about that.”

“I don’t have time for common decency.” He crossed his arms, glaring at Harry challengingly. “That’s the difference between you and me, Potter. You think you’re responsible for the world. I think I’m above it.”

Harry stared at him. “That’s disgusting.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’m not the Boy Who Lived, if you haven’t noticed.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

"It means that I haven't got time to feel responsible for every snotty little child, every stupid imbecile who got himself killed! You hear me, Potter? I refuse to feel responsible! And you, you think you have to take it all on! That's not how you save a world."

Harry glowered. "Yeah, I suppose you know loads about doing that."

"Well, you’re doing a splendid job of it," Malfoy shot back. "What do you think, you could defeat the Dark Lord by having a crying fit over everybody he'd killed?"

"I thought," Harry hissed, teeth clenched together until his jaw ached, "that this war was about common decency. Even for people you don't know. Even for Muggle-born. Even for Muggles. Taking people at their best."

Malfoy snorted. "You are such a Gryffindor."

Harry instinctively folded his arms, hugging his elbows; he felt the shiver run through him, thinking always of Sirius. Cedric's body, sprawled in the graveyard; Sirius, arching back, forever. Every morning in the mirror, his mother's eyes. "Maybe you've forgotten why there's a war to begin with," he said tersely. "Me."

"Maybe you've forgotten that not everything is about you," Malfoy retorted. "The sun does come up without you."

"Fuck you, Malfoy!"

"What’s the matter, Potter, is the voice of reason too much for you? There's a war because of the Dark Lord, you self-centered prat, so do something about it, if you care so much! Or you can sit up here and snivel about Colin Creepy’s brother and not do a thing! I’m tired of your self-pity, Potter, go owl someone who cares.”

Harry clenched his fists. “You think I should go, then?”

For a moment, Malfoy looked bewildered. “What are you blathering about? Go where?”

“Wales,” Harry said impatiently. “To kill Voldemort.”

To Harry’s annoyance, Malfoy immediately burst out laughing. Eventually, he choked out, “ _You’re_ going to kill the Dark Lord? With what, Potter, a Bat-Bogey Hex?”

“It’s not like I haven’t faced him before,” Harry snarled. “You wouldn’t know anything about it, Malfoy.”

Malfoy stared at him for a moment. Then he said, utterly serious, “If you’re going to Wales, I’m coming with you.”

“You’re—what?”

“My father’s there,” Malfoy snapped, looking annoyed. “I’ve got to find him. I’ve got to talk to him—"

“Talk to him about what?” Harry yelled. “Going to whine to him that you’re poor as the Weasleys or that you’re practicing Defense with Harry Potter? You are not coming to Wales with me just so your dad can kill me, and then you can tell him all about what you’re learning in Charms!”

“Wales is a country, Potter,” Malfoy said dryly, after a moment. “You’re talking about it as if it’s as big as the Great Hall.”

Harry spat, “Your father is Voldemort’s henchman! They’ll be in the same place!”

“That’s interesting,” Malfoy said. “Because you might call Crabbe and Goyle my henchmen, except they’re in the Slytherin common room, and I’m up here. If the Great Hall is Wales, I’d say that would put them in, oh, China. Maybe Japan.”

“Look, Malfoy, you can’t come!”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Oh, please, Potter. You aren’t seriously running off to Wales.”

Harry stared at him for a second. Then he sat down with a sigh. “I don’t know,” he said.

“I do. You aren’t going. Even you wouldn’t be that stupid. Unless you’d like to prove me wrong? Lower your intelligence another few notches?”

“I guess not.”

Malfoy lifted an eyebrow knowingly. "See? I do know you, Potter."

"Do not," Harry retorted, but it was halfhearted, and he sank lower in the chair; the remnants of his anger were ebbing and it left him exhausted. "There's a lot you don't know about me."

"What, that you kissed Chang? That you started your silly little DA right under Umbridge's nose? That you were once a short little boy in a robe shop? The whole world knows about you. I know about you."

A sudden thought of the prophecy flashed in Harry's mind, and he frowned. Kill or be killed. Survive or die trying. _No, Malfoy_ , he thought heavily, _there's still a whole world you don't know. That you'll never know._

"I wasn't that short," he said instead.

"You were."

"So were you." Harry smiled faintly, thinking of a towheaded boy standing loftily on a stool. "You still are, actually."

"I am not."

"You're a whole head shorter than Ron!"

Malfoy's lip lifted. "And why, pray tell, would I want to look like a Weasley?"

Ordinarily, Harry would be too incensed to care what had been said except for Ron's name, because when it came from Malfoy, it was never good. Still, the look of outrage on Malfoy's face made him burst into low laughter.

Harry said, after a moment, “Draco. Thanks.”

“That’s what I do, save heroes from suicide,” he drawled. And then, quieter, “Draco, is it?"

Harry looked at him, at the shadows around his face and the way he was looking back at Harry, half-apprehensive, half-shocked, his lips slightly parted. “Yeah,” Harry said.

“Oh.” Malfoy paused, then narrowed his eyes at him. “Does this mean I’m supposed to call you Harry?” He said Harry’s name as if it were a dripping piece of sewage.

“You can call me whatever you want,” Harry assured him, and then saw the smirk unfurling on Malfoy’s face and amended, “Within reason, that is. If I say it’s okay.”

“And here I was just thinking of all the possibilities,” Malfoy said impishly. “You’re ruining all my fun, Potter.”

“Sorry,” Harry said. He was still smiling.

"I should go," Malfoy said, after a moment, watching the half-grin still hover on the edges of Harry's mouth. "As long as you aren't going to hang yourself tragically from the ceiling, or jump out the window, or something else befitting your melodramatics."

“I am not melodramatic,” Harry muttered.

“If you say so,” Malfoy smirked. He turned around, once, at the door. “See you, Potter.”

Harry sat there long after he had gone, though he was no longer furious with himself, nor was he entertaining notions of going to Wales. How would he even get there? Instead, he was thinking about Malfoy. Draco. Who had fought him every step of the way. Who had stared at him, eyes flashing, and yelled right back at him. Who had looked so stricken at the news of Snape’s death that Harry had thought, for a moment, he was going to faint.

It was a long time before he went back to Gryffindor Tower.

Gryffindor was still in a state of mourning when Harry and Hermione helped Ron through the portrait hole the following evening; his broken leg had mended fully, but he still looked pale and tired, and he collapsed thankfully in the nearest chair. Hermione settled nervously on one of the arms, and Harry sat down on the couch. Across the room, a few second-years began whispering, but no one else was in the common room. Harry wasn't surprised.

“How are you feeling, Ron?” Hermione asked, as she had taken to doing every few minutes. “Do you want me to get you anything?”

“I’m fine, Hermione,” Ron said, though he looked rather pleased that she was worried about him. “Where is everyone?”

“Not very many people have been around,” Hermione explained, looking sadly at the empty common room. “Ginny and Dean are somewhere, Dean’s still—really upset—I know all the third years are sad about Dennis, they keep bursting into tears all over the place.” She looked both anxious for their sakes and annoyed. “Poor Ginny, both Dean and Colin need her, and she’s hardly had a moment to herself.”

“How is Colin?” Harry asked.

Hermione winced. "Bad, I think," she said, her voice quiet. "He's only really spoken to Ginny, but she says he's still upset, goes through these whole periods of denial where he talks about Dennis as if he's right upstairs." She put her hand on Harry's arm and added, grimly, "He still talks about you, though, and how you're going to save us. When he's clear that Dennis died, he keeps babbling to Ginny about how you're our only hope."

"Gee, that's not a lot of pressure, or anything," Harry said after a moment. The only hope of the Wizarding World. He was, wasn't he?

"Oh, Harry—" Hermione, not knowing how to continue, gave him a hopeless look. “Well, listen, he might want to talk to you when you get a chance, he said Dennis thought a lot of you, too.”

“All right,” Harry said reluctantly, looking away from her. He hadn’t known Dennis very well. All he knew about Dennis was that he was Colin’s younger brother and once had fallen into the lake. In fact, Harry had never paid him much attention.

But Seamus: he remembered the first time he'd met him, at the welcome feast, chattering along with Dean Thomas as if they'd known each other for years. Harry had thought they had, actually, before coming to the realization that Seamus just talked a lot and Dean was inclined to listen.

It had been Seamus who had doubted him, the past year, and avoided him, but it had also been Seamus who had illegally bought Firewhiskey for the Gryffindor party after Harry's Quidditch victory in November, and Seamus who had pin-ups of half-naked girls all over his corner of the room, and Seamus who had a laugh so distinctive that, even in the midst of studying in a crowded common room, Harry usually looked up and cracked a grin . . .

“I reckon You-Know-Who will want another spy inside Hogwarts right away,” Ron was saying. “He thought Snape was _his_ spy, remember?”

“I hadn’t thought of that, Ron,” Hermione said, looking impressed. “You’re right.”

“Yeah, well, I had a lot of time in the hospital wing to think,” Ron reddened. “Anyway, we ought to keep our eyes out for anybody who might be the spy. Do you think it could be Malfoy?”

“It’s not Malfoy,” Harry said before he could think twice about it.

Ron stared at him in shock. Hermione gave him a knowing but unhappy look.

“Voldemort’s not that stupid,” Harry added quickly, “he should know that everybody would suspect Lucius Malfoy’s son. Who’s going to trust Malfoy with any information? He’d be blabbing it all over the next day. Voldemort’ll want somebody in the Order.”

“I suppose,” Ron said reluctantly. “Hey, speaking of the Order, have you heard from Tonks, Harry? She wasn’t hurt?”

“Owled her last night,” Harry shrugged. “No response yet. I’ll bet the Aurors are all busy after what happened. Just let Fudge try and cover this one up.”

They all fell into silence, staring at the fire. Then, suddenly, Hermione exclaimed, “Oh, Harry! What are you going to do about your Occlumency? You know how important it is, you’ve got to keep on with it.”

“I think I can sort of do it now,” Harry admitted. “But Dumbledore might give me lessons, I’ll have to ask.”

“Hey,” Ron said, “that’s right. Who’ll be the new Potions professor?”

Harry frowned. The idea of that dreaded classroom without Snape’s lurking presence was a strange one. He couldn’t imagine Potions without Snape. He would never again hear Snape say, “Five points from Gryffindor, Potter.” Snape would never sneer at his potion and say disgustedly, “No marks.” In fact, Lisa might never have cause to stamp on his foot again.

The thought made him strangely gloomy.

“Potions without Snape,” Hermione said thoughtfully. She, too, looked somehow sad. “Can you imagine?”

“In any other case, I’d be thrilled,” Harry muttered. “Now, I don’t know.”

He thought of the spit-second images he’d glimpsed from Snape’s mind during that one Occlumency lesson: a sullen, yellow-faced boy cowering in the corner; a morose teenager, killing flies; a boy being mocked as he tried in vain to mount his broom. He pictured Snape hanging upside down and his dad and Sirius circling him eagerly. He wondered how Snape had felt, knowing he died for James Potter’s son. He wondered if Snape had ever been happy.

Harry hoped, fleetingly, that he had been.

“I’m going up to bed,” Ron announced through the haze of his thoughts, and Harry shook himself out of it to find that Hermione was also preparing to leave. He frowned down at Harry. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, trying to smile. “You?”

“Yeah,” Ron said gamely, and he grinned, although he still looked slightly shaken. “’Night, Hermione.”

They said their goodnights and Harry and Ron made for the sixth year boys’ dormitory, where Neville was already asleep. There was no sign of Dean, however, and Seamus’s bed gaped like an empty hole in the room, a solemn reminder. Last night, Harry and Neville had stripped his portion of the room of his magazine fold-outs; it seemed inappropriate to leave them hanging, as if he’d come back and snicker over them any minute. It also seemed inappropriate to send them home to his family with the rest of his things, so they were currently tucked inside Dean’s trunk.

“I reckon it’ll be a while before I get used to the four of us,” Ron said quietly, changing into his pyjamas. “It’s just not the same without him, is it?”

“No singing in the mornings,” Harry said.

Ron grinned in the semi-darkness. “Remember that time he streaked out of the shower starkers and jumped on all our beds?”

“Do I,” Harry muttered, but he smiled in spite of himself. “Waking up to that.”

“And he used to wear his mum’s cross for luck on every exam,” Ron remembered. “And that time he told Neville he wanted to be a Healer at St. Mungo’s, and Neville just glowed, only Seamus never knew why?”

“He came to every Quidditch match,” Harry said. “Even though he didn’t play.” He sighed, then paused. “Good night, Ron.”

“’Night,” came Ron’s voice, out of the darkness. There was nothing but breathing for a moment, and then Ron said, “Hey, Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t you go and die on me, all right?”

“You either,” Harry said quietly. He knew, without saying anything, that they were both thinking of Dean, unable to bear sleeping next to his best friend’s empty bed. After a moment, he said again, “’Night, Ron.”

“’Night, Harry,” Ron said. A few minutes passed, and Harry could hear him breathing the heavy, even breathing of sleep. He felt a flood of protectiveness for his best friend, lying there in the dark. Then he, too, fell into dreams.

The new Potions professor was a warm Indian woman named Aparna Kothari, and she was Snape’s opposite in nearly every way. She spoke calmly and warmly, and they spent their first class with her making the Draught of Peace, which they had already done in fifth year. She told them, smiling faintly, that she considered it a singularly important potion that was worth repeating.

And, after all, there were only six students in the classroom.

“Not one Slytherin in the class,” Hermione marveled, and the sound of her speaking freely to Harry as they worked startled him. He thought, with a twinge of guilt, that Snape would have swooped down on her immediately for talking out of turn. It almost felt irreverent, using his classroom when he wasn’t there.

“Better this way,” Anthony Goldstein said cheerfully, uncapping a small bottle that held powdered moonstone. “I remember I flummoxed up this potion last year. Started smoking so badly I thought it would go up in flames.”

“I got no marks,” Harry replied, stirring his own potion counter-clockwise. “Snape decided it was useless and Vanished it.”

“That’s awful,” said Hannah Abbott, the only Hufflepuff in the class, from across the aisle. “This is strange, isn’t it? I’m almost enjoying myself.”

Harry found that, to his shock, he agreed.

“Are they allowed to do this?” Lisa wondered, as she carefully added two drops of syrup of hellebore to her cauldron and leaned over to watch it simmer. “Just boycott Potions like this?”

“Well, I hardly see what they have to protest about,” said Padma, who sat next to Hannah. “What else was the Headmaster supposed to do, cancel Potions for good? He had to appoint someone else.”

“Keep an eye on your potion, Hannah,” Professor Kothari said mildly as she walked past Hannah’s desk. “You shouldn’t let it simmer too long. And Harry, be sure to lower your flames more, or the whole potion will be ineffective.”

“Thanks, Professor,” Harry and Hannah both said at the same time. All six of them exchanged glances, and Harry knew they were all thinking the same thing. No one could imagine Snape circling the classroom and giving helpful reminders. He was more likely to taunt, take points, and generally insult them for their incompetent attempts at potion making.

By the end of class, as Harry poured his Draught of Peace into a flagon and carried it up to her desk, he felt certain that he had pulled off an A, and might have even managed an E. The smoke issuing from his cauldron had been strangely orange-tinted in color, but she smiled at him when he set down his flagon, and Hermione said encouragingly behind him, “That was a really good lesson.” Hers, of course, had been perfect, as had Anthony’s beside hers. Hannah was still struggling desperately with her potion, which seemed more like gray sludge than any sort of draught.

“I’m sure the Slytherins will have to come to class next time,” Hermione said to him as they walked out of the classroom. “This can’t go on, surely.”

Harry nodded, though he felt decidedly disconcerted. It was not natural to have enjoyed a Potions lesson. It had been pleasant. He had made it through the entire lesson without being yelled at, insulted, threatened, or having his potion evaporated, which was unheard of when Snape had been in charge of class.

Still, he felt a twinge of guilt again at having enjoyed himself in Snape’s absence. Because Snape wasn’t just gone on a spying mission. He was never coming back.

Which was why Hermione insisted to him again at dinner that someone must intervene. Yet the next Potions class, and the next, only the six of them appeared. Professor Kothari seemed hardly to notice, and taught them as cheerfully as if she had had a classroom full of hundreds.

“Er, Professor,” Harry said, lingering after the third class, “sorry about the Slytherins, they’re just upset about Sn—about Professor Snape, you know.”

“Yes,” Professor Kothari said sadly, “it was a true tragedy. As a colleague of mine, I respected Severus Snape very much. His notes on the Wolfsbane Potion are quite brilliant. I am still trying to decipher them in order to help Professor Lupin.”

“Oh, right,” Harry said, feeling a chill for a moment. He had forgotten about that.

She folded her hands and looked seriously at him. “Harry,” she said, “the Headmaster suggested to me that you might have some influence. Could you have a word with some of them, do you think?”

“Me?” Harry exclaimed. “Talk to the Slytherins?”

“Albus seemed under the impression that you were friends with one of them,” Professor Kothari said serenely. “What was his name again? Oh, yes. Draco Malfoy. What do you think?”

Harry frowned. “I’m not—well—I suppose I could try. But I can’t promise anything, I mean—"

“Of course not, Harry,” she smiled. “I quite understand. Thank you.”

Harry was meeting Draco that evening in the Room of Requirement, though he waited until the end of their lesson before even broaching the topic. “You, er, haven’t been in Potions lately,” he muttered, just as Draco tucked away his wand.

Draco sneered. “What’s the matter, Potter, needing some Potions help?”

“No,” Harry challenged back, “but Professor Kothari’s a good teacher and I think you should come. What are you planning on doing, never attending Potions again?”

“It’s a Slytherin concern,” Draco snapped, turning away from him. “Not yours.”

“Look,” Harry pressed onward, “what else could Dumbledore do? Hogwarts needs a Potions professor. After the attack, we didn’t have one. He had to hire another. So why won’t you come?”

Draco wouldn’t look at him. “It’s for Professor Snape,” he muttered.

“He’s _dead_ ,” Harry shouted. “He’s not going to know!”

“Don’t you dare—"

“I’m not insulting him!” Harry threw back before Draco could finish. “I’m telling the truth! He’s gone and you know it, and not going to Potions isn’t going to do anybody any good. All it’s going to do is insure you fail your NEWTs, is that what you want?”

“Listen,” Draco said forcefully, “you don’t understand what Snape meant to our house. He was the only one who cared about Slytherin. He helped us, Potter. He was _on our side_. Now who do we have? This second-rate school is run by Muggle-lovers who favor Gryffindor and you know it—"

“Dumbledore doesn’t favor us,” Harry retorted, “you just think that, that’s not true!”

“Snape was the only one who looked out for us,” Draco barreled on, “and he was the best professor here. Don’t we have the right to mourn for him? Don’t we?”

“You can mourn and still go to Potions,” Harry said dryly.

Draco scowled. “You don’t understand—"

“Oh? You think I don’t know what it’s like to go on living after somebody you care about dies?” Harry demanded. “Besides, half the school was friends with Seamus and Dennis. They’re still going down to dinner, aren’t they?”

“Potter,” Draco said icily, “I will come to Potions class when I am ready to come. Until then, you can shut your mouth about it.”

“Fine,” Harry shot back. “The class is better when there aren’t any Slytherins, anyway.”

But the next class, Professor Kothari had just finished explaining the directions for the Preserving Potion they were making and had directed them towards the store cupboard for ingredients, when the door opened with a loud click. Harry was in the middle of carefully peeling his shrivelfig for himself and Lisa when Draco walked in.

He was silent and did not look at Professor Kothari, nor acknowledge that he was late; behind him came Blaise Zabini, then Millicent Bulstrode, Pansy Parkinson, Theodore Nott, and two other Slytherin girls whose names Harry thought might be Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis. They all followed him wordlessly, and when Draco stopped beside Harry’s desk on his way to his seat, they all stopped behind him.

“Potter,” he said, coolly. His gray eyes were fixed on Harry, who had stopped peeling to watch them.

Harry was unwavering. “Draco,” he acknowledged, as loud as he dared.

Draco might have inclined his head slightly, though Harry could not be sure. After Draco took his seat, the rest of the Slytherins dispersed to theirs. Silently, each of them began getting ingredients and inspecting the instructions that Professor Kothari had left on the board.

“Was that good enough behavior for you?” Harry grinned at Lisa, who rolled her eyes at him. He was tempted to shift and look over his shoulder at Draco, but he didn’t dare. Still, he could feel the other boy’s eyes on him as he worked and laughed with Lisa. That was enough.

Something about Draco changed after the attack on Hogsmeade; he was quieter and rarely spoke in class, even to make his usual derisive or blatantly sycophantic remarks. When he passed Harry and his friends in the hallway, he didn’t say a word, and in his Defense practice with Harry, he barely talked and never referred to their conversation about Potions. The difference showed, however, in his increased determination, and his spells improved rapidly. In some absurd, unexplainable way, Harry was proud of him.

As for Hermione, it was not until two weeks after the attack that she said, tentatively, as they were studying for Transfiguration in the common room, “Harry, you and Malfoy—"

“Look, it’s none of your business,” Harry said belligerently, as if to stem off her scolding before it could begin. “If you’re just going to lecture me about how he’s dangerous, I don’t want to hear it.”

Hermione pressed her lips together. “I was only going to say,” she murmured, “that I think it’s really good of you to work with him, Harry. That’s all. That is what you’re doing, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yeah,” Harry said, rather startled, “yeah, I’m helping him with Defense. And sometimes he helps me with Potions.”

Giving him a searching look, Hermione said carefully, “I could have helped you with Potions, Harry.”

“I know.” He paused and then, the closest he had come to telling her the truth, he muttered, “I wanted him to help me.”

“I know,” Hermione echoed him, watching him calmly over the top of her book. “I just think that maybe someone else should know, too.”

Harry gave her a surprised look. “You want me to tell Dumbledore?” He remembered the strange comment that Professor Kothari had made to him. He wouldn’t be surprised if Dumbledore knew; he seemed to know everything that went on in Hogwarts.

“No,” Hermione said patiently, “though that wouldn’t hurt. I meant Ron.”

They both glanced across the room to where Ron was sitting with Jack and going over notes they had taken on the Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff match. He was grinning and saying something derisive about Zacharias Smith, which Harry could not hear entirely but knew was not pleasant. He swallowed.

“I’m going to tell him. I just—after everything that happened at Hogsmeade—and what with Draco’s father loose—"

Hermione gave him a piercing look as he said Draco’s first name, but she said nothing of that, only frowned. “Harry, there is never going to be a time when Ron doesn’t hate Malfoy. He’s not going to be happy about it. They’ve never liked each other. But if you truly think that Malfoy is worth your friendship, I believe you, Harry. Eventually, Ron will, too.”

“We’re not friends,” Harry protested, only to be met with her skeptical look. “We’re just. We have an agreement.”

“Which started with your lending him those coins,” Hermione said softly.

Harry looked uncomfortable. “I suppose. And the way he looked, after Moody was questioning him—you saw it, too, you said you did—"

“I said it wasn’t right, not that Malfoy was a good person.” Hermione leaned forward, and Harry met her eyes. She asked, her gaze serious, “I don’t need to remind you how much you hated him, Harry. What changed?”

Harry began to say, _he did_ , but he realized that wasn’t right. Had Draco changed? He thought, _maybe I changed_ , but that didn’t seem right, either. It was strange, when he thought about it, the way they had come together. Of course, a few Stunning spells did not a relationship make, and he’d stormed away from their meeting just the other week, furious with Draco for laughing over Cedric. They hadn’t made up until three days later, when Draco had sent him a rather whiny owl at breakfast.

“I don’t know,” he said truthfully. “Maybe we both did.”

“You do think he’s changed, then? You think he’s different than his father? That he’s not a Death Eater?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said again. “I don’t know if he’s going to be a Death Eater or not. I don’t know if he’d hesitate to kill me if he had the chance. But I do know that he isn’t Lucius Malfoy. He’s his own person, Hermione.”

She was looking at him, wide-eyed. “Harry—"

“Oh, I know, he’s dangerous,” Harry snapped. “Well, so am I. So we’re both taking chances. Isn’t that how it should be?”

Hermione gave him another searching look, and then she reached across the table and gave his hand a quick squeeze. “I trust you. And I do think it’s good that you’re helping him, Harry, I do. In these times, we need any allies that we can get.”

“He’s not an ally, Hermione,” Harry said scornfully. “I’m not going about recruiting for the Order.”

“You know what I mean,” she sighed. “’We must unite inside her or we’ll crumble from within,’ remember? That’s all I meant.”

Both of them went back to reading their Transfiguration, but Harry only got through one page on cosmetic alteration before he couldn’t stand it. Glancing up, he saw Hermione’s head bent studiously over her book, eyes darting from side to side as she read. He said, softly, “Hermione.”

“Something else?”

“I think,” he said, and felt his throat close up unexpectedly. He hadn’t realized he was this nervous. “Um, I’m, I think I’m. Gay.”

Harry swallowed fast. He had never told that to anybody. He’d barely dared admit it to himself.

Hermione said gravely, “With Malfoy?”

“No,” Harry yelped. “Not with—with anybody. I just think so. Maybe. I mean, I don’t know for sure, but I, I think so.”

She reached across the table and squeezed his hand again. “I’m glad you told me, Harry,” Hermione smiled. “I’d always wondered, but it seemed rude to say anything. Have you told anyone else?”

He got an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Like Malfoy?”

Hermione looked amused. “I meant someone like Professor Lupin. But if you have told Malfoy—"

“I haven’t,” Harry said quickly. “I haven’t told anybody.”

“Harry?” She looked slightly worried about his reaction to what she was about to say but, nonetheless, plunged onwards. “Do you have—feelings—for—for Malfoy?”

Harry knew it was impossible to deny it; he was flushing too much to blame it on the fire. “I have, um, thoughts,” he said vaguely.

Hermione looked pink, too, and wouldn’t look at Harry when she spoke. “What kind of thoughts?”

“What kind do you think?” Harry said, exasperated. “What kind of thoughts do you have about Anthony? I mean, it’s just a, a thing, I don’t really—it’s nothing to worry about.”

“I’m not worried about Malfoy,” Hermione informed him. “I’m worried about you. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“He doesn’t even know, Hermione! And besides, we’ve been hurting each other for years. It’s nothing new.”

“Be that as it may, I want you to be careful.” She looked at him solemnly for a long moment before standing up and stacking her books in a pile. “I’ve got to go to the library before curfew. But, Harry, if you don’t tell Ron at least part of this, soon, I’m going to tell him. Because he deserves to know. But I also think that he deserves to hear it from you.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, slowly, as she moved towards the portrait hole. “Yeah, thanks, Hermione.” After she had gone, he sat there, staring at the pages of his Transfiguration book but not comprehending a word.

_We’re been hurting each other for years._

Well, it was true, wasn’t it? That was what they were about; that’s what they were best at. He knew how best to provoke Draco, what exactly to say if he wanted to incense him. He knew how to crush him with a few words about his father, and he knew what annoyed him most. And Draco, Draco knew just what to say to make Harry forget everything else and want to pummel him, even if he had better things to be thinking about, bigger concerns. Yes, he knew how to hurt Draco. Strangely enough, it was one of the things he knew best.

But did he know how not to hurt him? Was that what this was?

Harry wondered.

_It’s nothing new_ , he had said. But this, this tense peace between them, this strange mixture of animosity and awkward acquaintance: this _was_ new.

Maybe Hermione was right. Because Harry had the feeling, as he sat there in the middle of a noisy common room and thought about the boy he had once hated so simply, that whatever this was, it had the potential to hurt him more than any jibe about his mother ever had.

Harry threw himself into a chair, frustrated, as the door to the Room of Requirement clicked shut. They had been practicing Shield Charms all afternoon, though it was difficult, as Draco was irritable and moody, to put it lightly, and snapped at Harry any time his _Protego_ was not strong enough to block whatever curse Harry had sent at it.

Finally, Draco had thrown his wand down, glared at Harry, and announced that he was going to the toilet. Harry had been grateful: had it gone any longer, he might have been tempted to really hex him.

Sighing, Harry kicked at a fallen cushion on the ground. Just when Draco was beginning to become tolerable, too.

For some reason, as his eyes wandered the room restlessly, his gaze alit on a small roll of parchment left on the table. From what he could see of it, it was covered in a curling, neat script. Without thinking, he picked it up.

_My darling Draco,_

_I’m pleased to hear of your progress in Potions. Though she may not be Severus Snape, I have heard positive things about Aparna Kothari from several sources and feel certain that you are in capable hands. I have no doubt that you are at the top of your class, Draco. Your father would be so proud of you._

_Lately I’ve been so busy I’ve scarcely had time to owl you, as I don’t doubt you have noticed. I must apologize. The renovations on the east wing of the house are unexpectedly taxing! I am now leaning towards the cream silk curtains, although your father did so appreciate a well-placed blue . . ._

Harry frowned, skipping several paragraphs, which told him more than he had ever wanted to know about interior decorating.

_. . . been years since I’ve seen Benjamin Wilkes, why, since before you were born. Yes, that’s right, and he was so young then! I saw him at our celebration of your birth. Of course, his brother had just died, and him only a child, but he was so polite to me. I always said that he was a well-mannered boy._

_In any case, he’s simply a lovely young man, and we had an exceedingly pleasant evening together. He even surprised me with that painting of your great grand-aunt Wilhelmina that I so loved; I had thought the Ministry had taken it away forever, but he charmingly explained that he had spotted it in a colleague’s office and remembered seeing it in our home so many years ago. How thoughtful he is, and what a memory he must have!_

_I find it curious that such a charming man has not yet married. He has a darling little villa in southern France and invited me to holiday there with him, which I graciously accepted. I do so miss southern France, especially in the summertime. I have such fond memories there._

_You are, of course, welcome to stay at the Manor if you’d like the comforts of home. And Isabella Nott tells me that Hogwarts is a perfectly lovely place to stay, if you so choose; I hear that her boy Theodore has stayed the past two years. Perhaps we could rendezvous in Paris at the end of the holidays so that you could meet Benjamin, as he seems fond of you already—_

"Reading my mail, I see, Potter," Draco said icily behind him. Harry whirled around.

"I was just," he began, and stopped. "Sorry. I'd thought—"

"That everything in this ridiculously inferior castle belongs to you, clearly!”

Harry colored. "I do not think that," he snapped defensively. "You just wouldn't tell me what was wrong, and—"

"And your plebian solution is to raid my mail?" He was sounding more and more enraged. "Keep your filthy hands off my things, Potter!"

"Look," Harry said, "I'm sorry I read your mum's letter. I shouldn't have. Will you calm down now? What is your problem today?"

"I'm just tired of people going through my belongings!" Draco shouted, tearing the letter from Harry's hands and causing it to rip halfway down the middle in the process. "You see what you've done? You're ruining everything, you and your fucking friends at the Ministry, can't keep your greedy hands to yourselves!" His face was red. "Need another chandelier for your office? Check Malfoy Manor, there might be one or two left! Some gold candlesticks? Another painting or two? Surely _those_ aren't possible Dark artifacts!"

"I," Harry said.

"Everybody just can't wait to have a piece of the fun," Draco hissed, "they've been waiting centuries to see the Malfoy family taken down, don't you get it? I bet the whole Ministry is laughing about it, bet they couldn't wait to raid the Manor; I'm sure old Fudge gets a good chuckle out of locking up all our wealth and saying he's preserving it, doesn't he? Well, I—"

"I'm not trying to take anything from you," Harry said, patiently, as if he were coaxing a spitting cat or a child in the middle of a tantrum. "I didn't know. I'm sorry all your stuff's been taken—"

Draco glared at him. "Oh, I'll bet you knew," he accused, "I bet you had a good laugh about it with Weasley, didn't you, Potter? Ha ha, Malfoy's getting what he deserves at last, that right? Ha ha, poor Malfoy can't buy a couple quills, he's got to patch up his robes, next thing you know, he'll be living in a hole in the ground, too . . ."

"I never thought that," Harry said fiercely, "and I never told Ron about the quills, so you can stop having a fit about it. And Ron doesn't live in a hole. He has a very nice house."

Crumpling the ruined letter in his fist, Draco tossed it angrily at the wall. "Whatever, Potter. Now you know the truth. About my mother too, and how she’s abandoning me for the stupid holidays."

Harry tried, "Well, it sounds as if she's getting along all right, maybe she can get some of your things back—"

"I’m sure you think she's a whore," Draco snapped, without provocation, "some kind of desperate trophy wife, I'm sure you're just having a laughing fit over it."

"I'm not," Harry said. After a moment, as if to prove his solemn interest in the matter, he said, "How old is Benjamin Wilkes, anyway?"

Draco snorted. "Twenty three."

" _Twenty three_?" Harry's pretense of interest dissolved into indignant horror. "But your mum is, what, fifty?"

"Forty two," Draco said. "Look, Potter, it's not unheard of, all right?"

"Twenty years is a long time," Harry muttered.

"Well, I'm sorry we can't all live up to perfect James and Lily Potter," Draco shot back. "Besides, she's only using him for his money. It’s good to show the Ministry that she’s moving on from my father, so she won’t be associated with his arrest. But,” and his eyes were sharp with fury, “she hasn’t forgotten him. My father is still alive. If she forgets, I’ll—I’ll kill her!”

Harry tried not to think about Lucius Malfoy or the pent up fury in Draco’s voice, and said instead, “You mentioned Wilkes’s money?”

“Wilkes was the older brother, he inherited it all. When he died, it would have gone to his heir, but he was only a year old at the time. So it went to Benjamin for safekeeping. If Wilkes’s—the dead one—if his heir dies, it’s Benjamin’s for good."

"Who’s the heir?"

"His son, Quincy Theodore," Draco said, "and yes, that's his full first name. He's a seventh year in Slytherin. Whiny tosser. Nobody likes him."

Harry said, "I've never heard of him."

"I'm not surprised," Draco muttered, "you don't even know all the Hufflepuffs in our year, do you?"

"Do you?" Harry retorted.

"Why would I have time to pay attention to Hufflepuffs? They're all useless, and most of them have spots."

Harry shrugged. "So why does it matter if I don't know who they are?"

"I'm supposed to be self absorbed," Draco said, as if it were painfully obvious. "But you're Harry Potter. You're supposed to smile at everybody and kiss babies. And Hufflepuffs."

"Well, I'm not Fudge," Harry retorted. "And I don't plan to kiss any Hufflepuffs any time soon."

"Oh?" Draco said archly, in a way that made Harry’s pulse quicken. "And who do you plan on kissing, Potter? Chang? She's practically a boy, you know. No chest to speak of, only thinks about Quidditch. Although she does cry an awful lot. Perhaps she feels she has to show she's a girl somehow."

"I—Cho and I aren't—no," Harry mumbled out.

"Not Chang, then," Draco mused. "Well, who've you got your eye on, then, Potter? The Metamorphmagus, is it?"

"I'm not—no!" Harry said. He wondered, for a moment, how Draco could have known, before recalling the unfortunate scene of his birthday. Yet dancing with Tonks was merely a fuzzy blur of her hands and a grinding rhythm; what he remembered the clearest was the tilt of Draco's chin, the way his gray eyes had fixed on Harry, searing and challenging. His shirt had been something white and clinging, and somehow, Harry remembered the fine shadows of his collarbones and the line of his throat against the pulsing lights.

Harry swallowed. All this talk of kissing was making him uncomfortable.

"My sources tell me differently," Draco said, snickering, unaware of Harry's discomfort. "What was it, now? Oh, yes. 'Boy Who Lived: Living It Up?'"

Coloring swiftly, Harry retorted, "That's unfair. Nothing would have happened if you weren't such a git."

"At least you dance better than you did at the Yule Ball," Draco snorted. "I'm surprised the Patil girl survived."

There was something charged in the air, some tautness to the conversation, that he was afraid to snap. But then, especially when it came to Draco Malfoy, he'd never been known to step down. "You were watching," he challenged.

And Draco, with one eyebrow raised, said coolly and unreadably, "I was."

Harry had no idea how to respond to that. Somehow, in trying, in a move unexpected by the both of them, he muttered, "Look, come for the holidays."

Draco said, sharply, "What?"

Even Harry had no idea what he'd said until a moment later, when he, too, was inclined to snap, "What?" Why had he said that? But instead he repeated, lamely, "You should come for the hols. To stay with Lupin. There's plenty of room, and if your mum's going to France, you don't want to have to stay here. Well, maybe you do, I don't know, maybe you've always dreamed of sharing pudding with Dumbledore on Christmas morning—"

"Enough, Potter," Draco said, looking disgusted at the very thought of feasting with Dumbledore. "You want me to stay with you and a werewolf? For Christmas? Have you gone mad?"

"What other alternatives do you have?" Harry demanded, at the same instant that he realized Draco might have a whole House of alternatives, that he could stay with Pansy, Crabbe, Goyle, Blaise . . .

But Draco tilted his head, appeared to be thinking about it for several moments, and then said, "All right. But this doesn't mean anything."

"Such as?"

"Such as, I like and approve of werewolves."

Harry folded his arms. "Fine. But it does mean that you have to stop calling him 'the werewolf' and refer to him from now on as Professor Lupin."

Draco looked distasteful. "Very well. I still don't like Professor Lupin. Or you."

"Fine," Harry said, but he smiled.


	6. Chapter 6

Harry had gotten out of bed early to see Ron and Ginny off; Hermione had left the night before, with Anthony, to spend Christmas at his home. She’d kissed him on the cheek, wished him luck, and told him she would send him an owl. Ron had looked pleased when she’d done the same to him, though when he opened the portrait hole to find Anthony Goldstein waiting outside, he’d looked decidedly less cheerful.

It was snowing steadily outside, and by the time Harry returned to the dormitory to pack, everyone else had gone. Neville and Dean had left him a scrap of parchment on his pillow that said, in colored inks, “Happy Christmas Harry!” with several Golden Snitches scribbled around the edges. In the empty dormitory, in which Seamus’s absence was even more pronounced, Harry was grateful for it.

He arrived at Remus’s rooms in the afternoon to find Draco already waiting there, wearing a familiar sneer. He straightened when Harry got closer.

“Ready?” Harry said, rather unnecessarily.

“Oh, thrilled,” Draco retorted sarcastically, sounding as if he were starting to doubt accepting Harry’s offer. “I’ve been waiting all week to visit the doghouse. I couldn’t be happier.”

“Don’t call it that,” Harry said. He leaned around Draco to knock on Remus’s door.

“Me, a Malfoy, setting foot in the home of a werewolf and Harry Potter,” Draco continued on, scowling. “The disgrace is unimaginable. It’s probably filthy. Covered in grime. I’ll catch some incurable disease, no doubt.”

“Oh, shut up,” Harry said good-naturedly, leaning against the wall. “It’s a Pureblood house, you know. Your mum’s family lived there.”

“Well, it’s probably infested with fleas now,” Draco muttered.

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but at that moment, Remus opened the door and said pleasantly, “Boys, come in,” and they followed him inside. He already had the Floo powder out and, after offering them both a cup of tea, which neither wanted, he gestured to the fireplace. “You boys go first.”

Draco looked horrified. “Potter,” he said, “I am not going first. Lord knows what kind of disgusting things you have stowed away there.”

“Fine, I’ll go first,” Harry said, rolling his eyes at Remus. Green flame roared as he tossed a handful of Floo powder into the fire, and taking a deep breath, he stepped through.

What hit Harry first was the subtle dank smell of Grimmauld Place, as he tumbled out of the fireplace coughing. Once he had spoken to Sirius and Remus through this very fire, listening as they both told him about his father. And he’d stuck his head through looking for Sirius in June, when he had found only Kreacher. Harry glanced around the room as he waited for Draco and Remus to come through the Floo. Dust had settled with a vengeance in the past months, with Remus gone, and it looked much the same as he remembered it in the beginning, a dark house full of shadows and secrets. There was something sad about it now, Harry thought. It looked neglected.

Maybe, he speculated, it wasn’t the same without any Black descendants living inside it. The thought was unexpectedly gloomy.

It stung him to realize that Sirius’s death had become undeniable, a part of Harry. All through the first weeks of summer he had fought it, dreaming desperately of the Department of Mysteries not out of Voldemort’s obsession but out of his own final, futile sense of hope. But after Dudley, after Dennis and Seamus, after Sirius’s own enemy Snape, who was he to challenge the finality of death? Nothing he did could change anything. Nothing could bring them back.

“I despise traveling by Floo,” Draco snarled behind him, as he stumbled out into the room. He looked disheveled and unhappy, and Harry couldn’t help but laugh at him. “Oh, how very welcoming of you, Potter,” he said flatly. “Ha ha.”

“Welcome to the House of Black, then,” Harry said, but he stopped as he saw the way Draco was glancing around the room inquisitively. “Have you been here before?”

Draco shrugged, wandering towards the fireplace to inspect an antique clock that stood forbiddingly on the mantel. “Only once. I don’t remember it very well, I was only three or four. My great-aunt fed me sweets. I remember a lot of dark rooms.”

Harry was about to ask him what the manor was like when Remus clambered out of the fireplace looking haggard. “Floo travel,” he sighed. “I prefer trains, myself. But here we are. Would anyone like tea now? I seem to remember that I left some in the kitchen . . .”

Though Harry wandered after Remus, Draco seemed more caught up in investigating the contents of the room. He ran a thin finger across the surface of the clock, dragging dust with him, and it made him sneeze. Harry smiled and left him to it.

“Mrs. Weasley would have a fit if she saw the house now,” Harry was saying to Remus when he heard what sounded like a shriek from the other room. Frowning, he looked up, but Remus only shook his head.

“It’s that dratted woman,” Remus said. “Not for the first time do I wish we could just remove her. But her picture appears to be rather firmly stuck to the wall.”

Harry winced as he heard Sirius’s mother begin her wail anew. “WHO DARES DISTURB THE NOBLE AND MOST ANCIENT HOUSE OF BLACK WITH SUCH FILTHY MUGGLE-LOVING HANDS—" she began to screech, and then, just as Remus was rising from his seat with an ill-suffering sigh, she stopped.

“Go see what’s wrong now,” Remus sighed, and Harry moved to the doorway to look. Draco was standing in front of the portrait, arms folded, and he was almost smiling. Harry moved closer.

“. . . quite a surprise to see you back here,” Mrs. Black was saying, her voice surprisingly civil. “After being infested by Mudbloods and werewolves, I’d thought there was no hope for us. Bless you. How is your mother?”

“I assume she’s well,” Draco drawled, though there was a certain pride in his tone that Harry had never heard. “She’s in France, of course, though I expect I’ll be hearing from her soon.”

Mrs. Black sounded pleased as she purred, “And darling Bella? She was always my favorite. How _is_ my Bellatrix?”

“I haven’t seen her in months,” Draco said, shifting uncomfortably. “She’s, well, wanted by the Ministry, you know.”

“The rightful inheritor of this house,” Mrs. Black screeched without warning, “my Bella, she’ll come back for me, she will! Enough of these traitors and halfbloods in here! CLEANSE THE NOBLE HOUSE OF THEIR STAIN! DIRTY FILTHY MUDBLOODS—"

Harry backed away without a word into the kitchen, where Remus was sipping his tea calmly. He’d momentarily forgotten that Narcissa Malfoy was Sirius’s cousin, making Draco Sirius’s second cousin. And Tonks, too, was the daughter of Andromeda; not counting the disowning, that made Tonks and Draco cousins, too. Was _everyone_ related? He remembered Ron telling him once that if wizards hadn’t married Muggles, they would have died out.

“Bit mad, isn’t she?” Draco said, wandering into the kitchen. “Lord, when I met her, she was rather old and ugly, but at least she was sane. Of course,” he added, with a look around him, “I suppose the Blacks now have a reputation for begetting madmen and criminals—"

“Draco,” Remus said, sternly, before Harry could even open his mouth, “while you are in this house, you will respect Sirius Black, and that is final, or you will leave immediately. I don’t want to hear a single word against him.”

“I didn’t—"

“You alluded to it, and as far as I am concerned, that’s the same thing.” Draco looked as if he were about to protest further, but Remus overrode him once again. “You may not be my student here, but you are my guest. I’ve heard that the Malfoys are admired for their gracious manners. I’d hate to be proven wrong.”

Harry had to hold back a rather skeptical snort at the part about manners, but Draco stared at Remus for one long moment before saying smoothly, “A Malfoy’s manners are always impeccable.”

Remus said mildly, “I’m glad to hear it. Now, Harry, why don’t you show Draco where his room is?”

“Potter. If I’m not mistaken, that’s my bed.”

Harry looked up from reading and grinned at him from where he was sprawled. “Yours is more comfortable,” he said. “Besides, my room doesn’t have any windows, it’s like living in a cave. Or the Slytherin dungeons.”

“We do so have windows,” Draco retorted. “And anyway, what gives you the right to take over _my_ bed?”

Absorbed in his book, Harry didn’t answer.

“Budge up,” Draco finally demanded, poking him with his elbow. “If you’re going to steal my bed, the least you can do is make room.”

Harry moved obligingly. Then he went back to his book.

After a moment of being ignored, Draco could not stand it.

"Potter. What are you reading?"

It took Harry several seconds to pull his eyes from the page to slowly look up at Draco. "It's a book on the history of the magical world. It's really interesting."

Draco's eyebrows rose skeptically. "You're reading _history_?"

"Well, I'm sorry we can't all read Shakespeare like you," Harry said sarcastically. "Yes, I'm reading history. Hermione suggested it to me, and it's not horrible like all the books Binns reads to us from. I didn’t grow up knowing this stuff, okay? So it’s interesting to me."

"Touché." Draco blinked at him, then grabbed for the book and inspected the cover with meticulous care. "We have this book in our library at the Manor."

Harry was quiet for a moment, resting with his chin in his hands and his elbows propping him up, eyes watching Draco silently inspect his book. _I used to really hate him_ , he thought wonderingly. Of course, Draco still annoyed him to no end, but it was—he was used to it. And where before he would have fought an army of Dementors before spending Christmas holidays with Malfoy, he didn't mind it. He was, strangely enough, enjoying himself.

"Er, what?" he said, realizing that Draco had been talking.

"Oh, of course, Potter. No need to listen to me. I can't possibly have anything important to say." Draco raised his eyebrows again, leaning back against the headboard of his bed. "I was saying, the look on the Weasel's face when he hears you spent the hols with me instead of at his little hole will be priceless."

"Don't call him that," Harry said, off-handedly, the way he did every day.

Draco gave him a guarded look. "Anyway, I suppose it's a good thing you didn’t, or you'd be watching the Weasel and Granger snog each other all the time. Now if that isn't a sight to induce self-mutilation, I don't know—"

"What?" Harry snapped.

Draco snorted loudly. "Christ, Potter. You mean you haven't seen it coming?"

"Well, yeah, but Hermione’s dating Anthony Goldstein now, she’s with him for the hols—"

"Oh, the Ravenclaw." With an unreadable expression, he added cautiously, "Pansy said Chang and Corner broke up. Something about Chang being a bit too interested in you. What’s all that about?"

Harry sighed. "Don't bring that up, Malfoy, that's unfair."

"And since when do I play fair?" He smiled genuinely enough to show his teeth this time, for which Harry was relieved; all these cautious questions and unexplainable looks were making him uneasy. "So why did you dump the girl, Potter? She refuse to put out?"

Harry threw him a glare. "No!"

"You don't like girls now?"

Harry's glare became, if possible, more intense. "That’s not why Cho and I—"

"Well, I always wondered, what with all that interest in Justin Finch-Fletchley."

Harry colored hotly. "I have never been interested in Justin Finch-Fletchley! We just didn't work out, all right? She was crying all the time."

Draco snickered. "Dear god, Potter, you were that bad?"

"I—no! We only kissed a few times and—" He narrowed his eyes. "She was crying about Cedric, all right?" When Draco only continued to smirk at him, he challenged, "Well, who've you kissed, then, if you're so brilliant at it? Pansy?"

Draco's face contorted into something like shock. "Pansy? Why would I kiss Pansy?”

“You kissed her in the club,” Harry pointed out, feeling a strange thrill at the mention of that night.

“She kissed _me_ ,” Draco said, something of a whine in his voice. “A willing participant I was not.”

“I thought you liked Pansy!”

“I do like Pansy, she’s my friend. But I don’t go around just kissing all my friends, Potter. You haven’t noticed Crabbe and Goyle locking lips lately, have you?”

“Who else, then?” persisted Harry, trying not to think of Crabbe and Goyle kissing anyone, much less each other.

“Well, Theodore Nott.”

“Nott?” Harry exclaimed, a mix between horrified and curious. The news that Draco had kissed another boy made his heart begin pounding double time. “But isn’t he with Padma Patil?”

“Truth or Dare game, third year,” Draco said, by way of explanation. Harry frowned, remembering what he was doing in third year, which may have been rescuing Hippogriffs and worrying about escaped convicts, but certainly wasn’t getting his first kiss. Draco must have taken his rueful expression as disgust, because he said, “He’s not so bad, you know. Oh, don't give me that look, I meant as a person, not as a kisser. Most of us aren't, once you give us a chance."

Harry thought of a younger Snape, alive and miserable, in the center of a circle of taunting faces, alone, alienated, bullied. He thought of his father, rumpling his hair, laughing. "Yeah," Harry said quietly, if reluctantly. "I suppose. But," with a look up at Draco, "I still think Crabbe and Goyle are even stupider than Dudley was."

Draco laughed. Then he leaned over, a swift motion, and kissed him.

It wasn't that it was a particularly long kiss; Draco was hesitant, as if afraid that at any moment Harry would jump away. Harry himself was in too much of a stupor to do much more than splutter in his mind, so by the time he came to his senses, he had somehow moved from lying on his stomach to lying on his back, and Draco was kissing him again. His mind told him, as if his body was on autopilot, that he was kissing Draco back.

"Malfoy," Harry said breathlessly, shoving the other boy off him and scrambling off the bed, "what are you doing?"

They were still for a moment, eyes locked, Harry rooted to the spot beside Draco, Draco kneeling awkwardly on the bed with no emotion in his eyes, impossible to read. Time seemed to stretch on, unmeasured, holding them in place. And then, utterly conflicted, Harry turned and bolted for his room.

It was the next afternoon when Harry knelt before the fireplace, hands on his knees. It was disconcerting to see only Ron’s head sticking out of the fire, but Ron didn’t seem to notice. He was talking rapidly; in fact, since he had first appeared in the fire, Harry didn’t think he had shut up.

“. . . and you’ll never believe who’s home for Christmas, Harry! Charlie! Mum thought she’d let him surprise us. Ginny screamed when she saw him. Fred and George are here too, driving Mum mad with their experiments, but they brought her a set of self-ironing robes, she’s been wanting them for ages, but they're really expensive. They said their joke shop was doing better and better, so she can’t yell too much . . .”

“That’s good,” Harry managed to get out, before Ron barreled on.

“Oh yeah, and Ginny had Luna Lovegood over yesterday. I tell you, she’s nutters, Harry—all she did was wander around muttering about Nargles and Crumple Toothed Hornbacks or whatever they’re called!”

Harry laughed. “It’s kind of quiet over here.”

“That’d be a bloody relief,” Ron muttered. “I should come visit you for a change. It’s a mad house here, Harry, the twins keep levitating things and they exploded one of Mum’s Christmas cakes, said it was an accident, she keeps shrieking at them to get their experiments out of the kitchen, and Charlie brought Ginny this little plush dragon and it roars if you scratch it behind the ears, it’s all anybody’s been doing—"

“Sounds busy,” Harry said. On one hand, he missed the chaos of the Weasley family at Christmas; on the other hand, he was relieved to have the quiet and solitude of Grimmauld Place. “Look, Ron—"

“I mean it, Harry, I’ve got to get out of here,” Ron exclaimed, looking as if he were ready to climb through the fire right then and there. “We can take out Sirius’s motorbike and nobody will know, how about it?”

Harry had an idea of what would happen if Ron came to Grimmauld Place and found Draco there. It wasn’t a pleasant image for any of them, Harry included.

“I actually—I’d kind of like to get away, too,” Harry lied, glancing behind him towards the stairs. “It’s kind of creepy here, you know. Sirius’s empty house.”

Ron looked slightly disappointed. “We could meet in Diagon Alley, I suppose,” he suggested, after a moment. “I’ve still got to buy something for Ginny.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, relief washing over him, “yeah, Diagon’s good. When?”

“Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve,” Ron said. “Noon, how about? At Fred and George’s shop? Mum’ll only let me go if I say they’re coming along.”

“All right.” Harry glanced over his shoulder again. He thought he heard footsteps. “I ought to go—told Remus I’d look over some, um, some of Sirius’s stuff with him—"

“Oh,” Ron said, who again looked vaguely disappointed. “Well, good luck—I’ll see you tomorrow—"

Harry waited until Ron’s head disappeared from the flames before he stood up and faced the stairs, arms folded. Sure enough, after a moment, Draco appeared from the shadows, one eyebrow raised. Harry scowled at him. “You were listening.”

“I see you’re meeting the Weasel,” Draco drawled, as if Harry had not even spoken. He leaned against the wall, still mostly cloaked in shadows.

They hadn’t spoken of the kiss since it had happened the day before; Draco had come down for dinner and they had acted as if nothing at all had happened, though he didn’t speak to Harry until halfway through the meal. Unable to conceal his relief that Draco hadn’t fled, Harry had kept glancing at him when he wasn’t looking. And to make matters worse, Remus had been watching both of them curiously, as if he could sense that something was not quite right.

Harry said, “Well, I figured you wouldn’t want him coming here.”

“How considerate of you.”

“Yeah, I try,” Harry said sarcastically, then quieted. They were strangely close, here; it would be so easy for him to step forward and brush his hand against Draco’s jaw, to press him against the wall and put his mouth on Draco’s. And he wanted to—he had always wanted to. But it was more complicated than that, wasn’t it? Or he would have stayed on Draco’s bed, wrapped his arms around him, and continued kissing him all afternoon.

Some insidious part of him, that had been bothering him since the afternoon in question, demanded to know why he hadn’t.

Across from him, Draco’s eyes seemed to be asking the same question.

“Er,” Harry said, rather too forcibly, as he had noticed Draco begin to turn away when Harry was silent for too long, “do you want to, er, play Gobstones?”

Draco turned back to give him a withering stare. “Potter, I haven’t played Gobstones since I was twelve. Is that what you Gryffindors do for a good time?”

“Wizarding chess, then,” Harry persisted. “Come on.”

After a moment, in which Draco eyed him appraisingly, he finally said, “If you insist, Potter. I’ve a set upstairs.”

Harry watched him disappear back up the stairs as he sat down by the window. He had spent the entire time between the kiss and dinner the day before pacing frantically in his room, desperately demanding what he had done. What he should have done. What he wanted to do.

 _It was just a kiss_ , Harry thought. _One you’ve wanted for months._

But it wasn’t, was it? With Harry and Draco, nothing could ever be that simple.

 _I don’t know if he’s going to be a Death Eater or not_ , he had told Hermione, and he had meant it. _I don’t know if he’d hesitate to kill me if he had the chance._

It was true. He didn’t know. For as much as he knew about Draco, there were a thousand things he didn’t. He knew Draco’s laugh. He knew the way he smiled and the way he sneered and the way he looked when he was shouting, pink and furious. He knew the way he looked when nobody was watching him, which made Harry’s stomach clench unexpectedly. He knew the way he whimpered when Harry punched him, the way he curled into himself and didn’t fight back.

He knew that Draco had been hurt by his father’s absence, perhaps more than he could admit. He knew that there were things that Draco believed in that weren’t merely Pureblood principles. He knew that being civil with Draco in a few short months had taught him more than he’d ever expected.

He knew that Draco had kissed him, and watched him stumble away, and hadn’t sneered about it afterwards, or passed it off as a joke. He’d simply waited. Was waiting. As if he trusted Harry.

He knew that Draco trusted one person, loved one person, more than anyone else in the world, and that was Lucius Malfoy. Which could very well mean Harry’s death. Kissing Draco back could put his life, and the lives of everyone around him, more at risk than they ever had been.

So no, it wasn’t just a kiss.

“Potter,” Draco interrupted him from the bottom of the stairs, his voice barely short of a whine, “the tap in the toilet just _bit me_.”

“It does that sometimes,” Harry said, beckoning him over. “Does it hurt?” He made the appropriate noises of concern as Draco stuck out his finger imperiously, until he couldn’t help it any longer, and laughed. “Oh, don’t be such a baby. There’s hardly a mark.”

“I’ll have you know that my great-great-uncle was bitten by a tap and died from it within the week,” Draco said indignantly.

Harry snorted. “You made that up.”

“I most certainly did not. It was covered in rust. He got blood poisoning.”

“Draco, you’re not going to _die_. Sit down, are we going to play or not?”

“Wait until I’m on my deathbed, Potter, and then you’ll be sorry,” Draco said, still looking put off, but he sat down anyway. Weak sunlight filtered into the room and washed over them, making Draco look even paler as he sat there, carefully picking out his pieces. His forehead was creased in concentration, and Harry watched him, watched his nimble fingers and the way he frowned and the shift of the shadows around his neck as his shirt collar peeked open. And for a moment, nothing else, none of it, mattered.

Draco looked up at him and said, almost startled, “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Harry said, quietly. “Let’s play.”

Because when it came down to it, Harry knew only one thing.

He wanted this.

Diagon Alley was bustling with people when Harry and Ron edged out of Fred and George’s shop, having narrowly talked their way out of testing a new product, something sludgy and green that Fred looked a bit too keen on someone drinking. The streets were so crowded with last-minute shoppers that Ron was nearly run over by a group of what looked to be three blonde triplets, probably no older than seven or eight, chasing each other ferociously down the street.

“Oy,” Ron bellowed after them, “watch where you’re going next time!” Turning to Harry, he muttered, “I’m not even at Hogwarts, and I can’t escape them. It’s like I’ve got Prefect tattooed permanently on my forehead.”

“On the bright side,” Harry offered, edging around a gaggle of witches loaded down with packages, which already appeared to have been magically reduced in size, “none of your brothers have kids yet, right?”

Ron looked stricken at the possibility. “Blimey,” he said. “I’d never thought. Remind me to castrate Bill later, will you?”

“Consider it done,” Harry said. “Come on. Let’s go in Quality Quidditch Supplies. I’m not visiting Diagon and not going.”

They made their way towards the shop, taking care to avoid most of the awnings that hung heavy with snow; most of them were adorned with several bunches of mistletoe, and all along Diagon Alley, Harry could see strange couples kissing. Outside the Owl Emporium, a man in billowing purple robes and long white hair was giving a quick peck to a menacing looking young woman who rather resembled Millicent Bulstrode. She was probably forty or fifty years his junior, but then, it could be more like a hundred years, considering how age in the wizarding world ran. Harry got a sudden mental image of Dumbledore kissing Millicent Bulstrode under a cluster of mistletoe and almost choked.

Ron and Harry hardly spoke when they entered the shop: the first step inside Quality Quidditch Supplies was always a spiritual experience for them, and they weren’t about to ruin it by chattering. After a moment, in which both of them gazed around the shop eagerly, Ron said in a hushed tone, “Harry, look, they’ve got Joey Jenkins’s autographed Bludger . . . and a set of his Chudley robes . . .”

Harry was already distracted by the posters on the wall, which loudly advertised old matches with snippets of the announcer’s coverage and the roaring of the crowd. He watched the Seeker for the Tornados make a victory lap around the pitch with the Snitch held high in his fist. Next to him, a recording of a recent match was looping, and he absently heard the announcer yelling, “And there goes Perkins for the Arrows—but here comes Falmouth! Looking none too pleased—and it’s a nice save!—And it’s Perkins, Perkins with the Quaffle as the Arrows lead sixty-thirty—“

“Harry,” Ron called excitedly from across the shop. Harry hurried to where he stood, staring open-mouthed at the selection of brooms.

“There’s a new model of the Firebolt,” Ron whispered reverently, grasping at Harry’s arm. “Look—it’s just a prototype—I heard that Ingemar Knudsen helped design it himself after the Norwegian National Team won the World Cup last year—"

Harry squinted at the sign that hung from its impeccably polished handle, which read:

**UNBELIEVABLE ACCELERATION! SMOOTHER THAN THE CURRENT MODEL! EACH ONE INDIVIDUALLY CRAFTED! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?!**

Both Harry and Ron stared for a good several minutes more. Finally, Ron said glumly, “Well, nothing I can afford for Ginny here. I suppose we’d better go on, then.”

“Yeah,” Harry said reluctantly. “Suppose we’d better.”

Naturally, it took them a good fifteen minutes longer to drag themselves out of the shop.

“Oh,” Ron exclaimed, after they narrowly avoided being run over by a too-eager vendor and his cart, which seemed to hold all sorts of stoppered glass bottles, “hey, Harry, by the way, have you heard from Hermione?”

“Not since we left,” Harry said, frowning. He’d owled her, after some deliberation, about the kiss, but she hadn’t yet responded. “Why?”

“She’s at the bloody Burrow,” Ron shouted. They had passed among a crowd of young witches who were chattering fiercely just then, however, and he had to raise his voice even louder to repeat it to Harry. “Came from Goldstein’s yesterday, after I talked to you,” Ron continued, looking bewildered by the entire situation. “Spouting some rubbish about realizing he wasn’t the one she wanted to be with. Been whispering with Ginny ever since. Bloody girls.”

“That’s, er, sudden,” Harry said awkwardly. He wasn’t exactly sure what Ron wanted him to say.

“You’re telling me! As if we aren’t short of room already!”

Harry gave Ron what he hoped was a telling look. “You mean you didn’t want her to come?”

“Well, of course I wanted her to come, Harry,” Ron said, as if Harry had missed the most obvious point of all. “I always said that Goldstein was a suspicious fellow, didn’t I say that?”

“Yeah, I think you might have done,” Harry said dryly. “More than once, actually.”

“And now all she does is whisper with Ginny all hours of the day! They’re always giggling—I tell you, girls, they’re all mad—"

“Really,” Harry said, unsure of how to quite broach the subject with Ron. “Well, er. Who does she want to be with, then?”

Ron looked thoroughly disgusted. “Probably bloody Neville, for how often she talks about him. ‘Oh, Neville looks nice today.’ ‘Oh, I saw Neville in Diagon Alley, buying some quills. ‘Oh, I hope Neville’s Christmas isn’t too lonely at St. Mungo’s.’ Why didn’t she Floo to Neville’s house if she was so eager to see him?”

Harry had to choke back a laugh at this new target of Ron’s vitriol. “Ron,” he said, earnestly. “Are you blind? Hermione doesn’t like Neville. She likes you.”

“What?” Ron looked momentarily bewildered, but then he shook his head. “But—no, she doesn’t! She can’t, she’s always telling me to sit up straight and stop shouting and not to be a blithering idiot—"

“Yeah, you are a blithering idiot,” Harry said, grinning. “But she likes you.”

Ron stopped dead in the street, mouth hanging open, and stared at Harry. After a moment, he said rather weakly, “She does?”

“Of course she does,” Harry reassured him. Unfortunately, just then, an old and rather stooped witch stopped in front of Ron, gave him an appraising look, and let out a rather frightening cackle.

“My, my,” she said, blinking watery eyes up at him. Ron looked utterly taken aback. “Young man, it appears we are standing under a bunch of mistletoe.”

Ron yelped and leapt back with surprise. “No, no, sorry,” he babbled, as Harry doubled over with laughter. “Never trust mistletoe—very dangerous—lots of Nargles—" And with that, he backed away rather rapidly into the nearest shop, with Harry wheezing after him.

The shop turned out to be the Magical Menagerie, and Ron nearly knocked over a large tabby cat as he stumbled inside. The cat yowled in agitation and Ron looked at it with great annoyance, then gave Harry the same look. “It’s not funny,” he said indignantly, but this only made Harry snort and turn towards the offended cat to hide his knowing smile.

“Never thought something Luna told me would come in handy,” Ron said, grinning ruefully, when he caught up to Harry beside the small number of owls on display in the Menagerie. There weren’t very many, since Eeylops’ Owl Emporium was located just down the street, but the ones they had were quite beautiful. Harry thought loyally that Hedwig was better than all of them.

“You’ll have to thank her for that one,” Harry grinned back at him. “Hey, doesn’t Ginny like cats?”

Ron’s grin turned into a halfhearted smile. “Loves them,” he said, “but I can’t afford a cat, and besides, Mum would murder me. Says she’s got quite enough to deal with, without having a cat running about.”

“We’ve got a lovely selection of Puffskeins,” a voice said behind them, and both of them turned around to see a witch with thick-rimmed black spectacles. “Bit lower cost, much more manageable—quite a favorite with the children—"

Harry thought to himself that Ginny would probably have a royal fit if she heard herself being referred to as a child, but he said nothing, especially as Ron peered at the custard-colored little balls of fur and squinted. One stuck out its long, sticky tongue and tried to lap at Ron’s fingers, but he pulled them back.

“I reckon I could afford it,” he muttered, frowning, “I’ll just—maybe Fred and George could lend me—"

“Hey,” Harry said, “I haven’t got anything for Ginny, let’s go halves.”

Ron stared at him. “Harry—you don’t have to—"

“No, I want to,” Harry insisted. “Ginny’s great. I meant to get her something. Come on, pick one out.”

“Sure?”

“I’m sure,” Harry said impatiently. “Hey, that one sort of looks like Susan Bones’s hair, doesn’t it . . .”

As they made their way back outside after making their purchase, Ron glanced around for any sign of the witch who had accosted him, but to his great relief, she seemed to have disappeared.

“I had a Puffskein once,” he said, ducking out the door after Harry. “Handy little thing. Ginny liked to play with it, too. Of course, Fred and George stole it to use as a Bludger, and that was the end of that. Mum scolded them for days. I still think that’s why Percy gave me Scabbers.”

Harry laughed. “Bad luck then, but maybe it helped us win a Quidditch match later. You know, gave them some good practice.”

“Speaking of the twins,” Ron said, “I’d better be getting back before Mum comes after me. She’ll want me to polish the silver, no doubt, and set the table, and comb my hair . . .”

Harry grinned as they made their way back towards Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes; he had heard Mrs. Weasley screech all of the former at one member of her family at one time or another. “Tell Hermione I said Happy Christmas,” he said at the door. “And, you know, Ron, she really does like you.”

Ron paused outside of Fred and George’s shop, looking thoughtful. After a minute, he said, “Thanks, mate.”

“Have a happy Christmas yourself,” Harry added, “and the rest of your family. From Remus too, I mean. I hope Ginny likes the Puffskein.“

“Yeah, tell Lupin we all wish him one,” Ron said. He grinned at him. “Hermione and I will send you an owl tomorrow.”

“Right,” Harry said, as Ron turned towards the door. “Happy Christmas . . .”

But Ron turned around, then, and gave him a rather guilty look. Sticking his hands in his pockets, he said, so quickly that it took Harry a moment to decipher what he’d heard, “HermionetoldmeaboutMalfoy.”

Harry swallowed. “Oh,” he said, feeling as if he had just found a Bludger in the pit of his stomach. Ron couldn’t possibly hate him, could he? They had just spent the afternoon laughing. “Look, Ron, I wanted to tell you, I did—wait. What did she say?”

“That you’ve been helping him with Defense, you don’t think he’s half the stupid tosser we’ve always thought him, and he might not be a Death Eater,” Ron recited. He peered at Harry. “You haven’t gone mad, have you? Thinking Malfoy’s decent? He could be planning something, you know.”

“I know,” Harry said, although the image that came to mind first was not Draco, wand out to hex him, but Draco, sprawled on his bed, lips parted, practically waiting to be kissed. “I—I’m being careful.” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Like I said, I should’ve told you—"

“Yeah, you should’ve,” Ron said frankly, sounding slightly put off. “But I talked to Hermione about it. And I reckon I would have gone a bit mad, hearing it with no warning.” He folded his arms. “I can’t say as I like you being friendly with Malfoy, but I can’t stop you.”

“You’re still my best friend, Ron,” Harry said, hoping the lump in his throat wasn’t audible.

Ron grinned at him. “Bloody well better be.” And then, he added, still grinning at the absurdity of the idea, “Anyway, it’s not like he’s staying for the hols with you, or anything.”

“Er,” Harry said, finding it suddenly difficult to look at Ron. “Ha ha. Actually . . .”

After leaving Ron, who was still muttering about Malfoy being at Grimmauld Place, Harry wandered back through Diagon Alley, the toes of his trainers soaked with snow. He spent the next hour searching for a present for Remus, and once he’d found what he was looking for in the dusty back shelves of Flourish & Blotts, he ran—almost literally—into Lisa and Padma, who jumped in embarrassment when he caught them in the Romance section. Still, they convinced him to join them for dinner, and the lights in the shops were beginning to go out when he took a rather bumpy Knight Bus back to 12 Grimmauld Place.

Harry was busy thinking of how he had reluctantly told Lisa and Padma the story of Hermione leaving Anthony, and how they had snickered as if it were obvious all along, so that when he walked into the kitchen and found Remus sitting up with a cup of tea and a small box of photos, he was startled.

“You’re home,” Remus said, giving him a mild smile. “I was beginning to get worried. But Draco assured me that I was being a paranoid old man, so I decided not to chase after you immediately.”

“Oh,” Harry said, and glanced over his shoulder, as if Draco were about to materialize from the shadows. “Where is he?”

“Upstairs, I should hope. We had dinner and he went to owl his mother. I said I’d stay and wait for you. Tea?”

Harry sat down next to him with a sigh. “Sure. Are these of my mum and dad?”

“Some of them,” Remus said absently as he rose to retrieve the kettle. “Most of them are of me and Sirius and your dad and Peter. Mostly from our school days. There might be a few of your mum, but that wasn’t until seventh year. She didn’t want much to do with us—or at least James and Sirius—until then. Sugar?”

“Yeah,” Harry said absently. Harry lifted the lid of the box and immediately saw a picture of his father beaming up at him. He seemed to be hoisted above several people’s heads, considering the hands that were holding him up, and he winked rakishly at Harry.

“Quidditch,” Remus said from over his shoulder, as if that explained everything. He handed Harry his tea. “I found them today while I was cleaning and thought you might like a look.”

Picking up the picture of his dad, Harry glanced down at the next one, which was of Remus sitting next to an enormous pile of books.

“My downfall as a true Marauder, Sirius liked to say,” Remus smiled as he sat down across from Harry.

Harry went to shuffle through the rest of the pictures when a sudden, chilling thought occurred to him. He said, very quietly, “Did you show these to Draco?”

Remus marked the dangerous note in Harry’s voice and sighed. “I did, Harry, but only because he asked. Nor did he make one—well. He didn’t make _many_ rude comments, let us say. And I think he genuinely liked hearing about them.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. For some reason, the idea that Draco had been shuffling through the pictures of Harry’s dad and godfather before Harry had even gotten a chance to look at them made his head swim with anger. “He had no right—"

“Harry,” Remus said gently, “he had every right, because I invited him. They’re my pictures. I decided to show Draco, because he wanted to listen. Now are you going to, or not?”

For a moment, Harry’s temper warred with how much he wanted to look at the rest of the pictures, and he glared down at the box, his vision blurring. But, after a moment, he only sighed and picked up the next one, setting it down rather forcefully on the table.

“Ah,” Remus said, ignoring the remnants of Harry’s aggravation and taking a patient sip of his tea. “Peter and James, at James’s fifteenth birthday celebration—if you squint, you can spot Sirius attempting rather awfully to kiss every girl there in the background—"

But Harry was not looking for Sirius; he stared, instead, at the chubby face of Peter Pettigrew, which was smiling up at him. This was the boy who would grow up to betray Harry’s parents. To serve Voldemort. To face Harry in the graveyard, just after Cedric died.

Harry felt ill. He quickly grasped for the next picture, in the hopes that it would not include Peter, but there he was, frowning at a chessboard as Sirius did some sort of victory dance around him . . . in the next, Peter and Remus were watching skeptically as Sirius mounted his broomstick backwards . . . the next photo was of Sirius and James, both leering rather groggily at the camera, jostling at each other . . .

“I’m afraid they were a bit too drunk to stand up that night,” Remus said, amusement twitching the corners of his mouth as he looked with Harry at the picture. “Sixth year, I think. Sirius had just been disowned by his mother and James thought the best solution would be getting completely sloshed."

“Am I a lot like my mum?” Harry asked, suddenly.

Remus looked thoughtful but not entirely surprised. “Quite a bit, I’d say,” he said at last. “You’ve certainly got her temper. And Lily could never stand for anything being unjust; she’d like Hermione a lot, I think. She was very—" He seemed to be struggling. “Alive. Vivid. I’m sorry, Harry, I don’t know how to put it better.”

“I just—everybody says I’m just like my dad, but I don’t feel like it,” Harry muttered. “I just, I’m not—"

“You don’t think of yourself as the greatest gift to wizarding kind, you mean,” Remus said, and laughed quietly. “Harry, you’ll never be just like James, and do you know why that is? You’ve had to be grown up since you were eleven years old. All this time at Hogwarts, and you’ve had to deal with being Harry Potter, and with the knowledge that somewhere out there, people want you dead. And what were we doing at sixteen? Getting drunk off our arses and watching James make a fool of himself in front of Lily, that’s what. We hadn’t anything else to do. Sirius and James, they were—we were all young, we didn’t have to be serious. But Harry, your dad was courageous when he had to be. Despite all the pranks he and Sirius played, his heart was in the right place. You’re more like him than you know.”

Harry swallowed hard, determined not to cry. Glancing down at the next picture, he saw Sirius and his dad play-fighting in the grass. As he watched, Sirius pinned his dad to the ground and looked up to wave triumphantly at him.

Harry said, rather hoarsely, “I wish I knew more about them, that’s all.”

“We were horrible,” Remus said fondly, “the way Sirius and James strutted about, you’d think they were kings. Once Sirius set Gryffindor Tower on fire, did you know? James saved the day with a few well-placed spells; I always told him that’s why he was made Head Boy. Sirius, though. Not repentant in the least.” He paused, smiling, in thought. “Trying to make fireworks, I think. Something about Peter’s birthday.”

Harry felt a sudden ache in his stomach, watching Remus; he wondered how it felt, to be looking back on people who were dead, or might as well be. He, Harry, had hardly known his parents, and he’d only just been getting to know Sirius. They had been Remus’s best friends.

“I’m sorry,” he said, quietly.

Remus smiled over at him. “And I’m sorry, Harry, that you had to grow up like this,” he said. “Never knowing your parents, having Sirius and then losing him, your cousin—Lily and James would be so proud of you, you know.”

Harry felt a knot in his throat, aching when he swallowed. His eyes burned. “But I can’t do anything, I’m just—"

“Harry,” Remus said, his voice firm, “you are doing what you can. What you’ve done with the DA is more than we ever hoped for. How you’ve proven yourself against Voldemort is more than anyone could ask. And Harry, people take strength from the very fact that you’re alive, don’t you know that?”

“But why?”

“Do you remember all the owls you got on your birthday? People look to you, Harry. You’re their hero.”

He felt sick. “But I’m not a hero,” he said fiercely. “How can I be? I’ve gotten people killed. And Snape! He didn’t even _like_ me, and he died.” Harry’s eyes burned. “And if I hadn’t been so stupid, Sirius wouldn’t have—"

“No,” Remus said. “No. None of that was your fault. You couldn’t have known. You’ve done fine, Harry.”

“I _haven’t_ , I—"

“Harry,” Remus said, and waited until Harry looked up at him. “None of us are perfect. Do you know how many mistakes we all made when the war began? People were killed, whole operations lost, because Aurors—trained Aurors, Harry, not sixteen year old boys—made mistakes. You’ve saved people’s lives, Harry, you haven’t given up, you’ve done everything you could do. And that is why you are so like your dad.”

Remus was smiling at him when Harry blinked and met his eyes. “Besides,” Remus said, “all of this with Draco, your dad never could have done that.”

Harry looked bewildered. “Done what?”

“Made friends. Reconciled with him. I’m impressed by the maturity you’re showing in giving him another chance.”

Was that it? Harry frowned. _Were_ they friends? Was this Draco’s second chance? “I’m just helping him with Defense,” he said, rather quickly. “I don’t—he’s always been rotten to me, and Ron especially, and I—"

“Don’t trust him?” When Harry nodded, Remus sighed. “Well, in these days, it’s better to be cautious. But I think you’ve found him to be more complicated than the boy who used to pull faces at you in Potions, haven’t you?”

This turn of conversation was making Harry increasingly uncomfortable. He sighed. “He’s still Lucius Malfoy’s son,” he said. “Sometimes I want to hex him senseless, he’s so— _oblivious_ , so blind about it. And the things he says, I don’t—"

“But?”

“But sometimes he surprises me,” Harry said and meant every word. It was true, after all. 

“You can’t expect too much from him,” Remus said, setting down his tea. “You can’t go looking at the Slytherins as people you have to convert. Redemption is such a strange idea, like you must transmute someone from one thing into another thing entirely. You’ll find, I think, that Draco is who he is.”

Harry frowned. What was that supposed to mean? He thought of Draco, arms folded, talking imperiously with the portrait of Sirius’s mother as if he owned the House of Black. He thought of him, mouth set stubbornly, casting a hex for the twentieth try, the surety in his glare suddenly giving Harry a chill. He thought of him, kneeling at Harry’s side, eyes dark and unreadable, just after they'd kissed.

“But what does that have to do with Voldemort?” Harry said, after a moment.

“Think about it,” Remus told him quietly. “Being around you is good for Draco. It makes him think twice about things.” He stood up, stretching. “But it’s late, and I’m not as young as I used to be. I believe my bed is calling. Good night, Harry.”

Harry said, absently, “’Night.”

Was this why he was so fixated on Draco, then? Because he wanted to save him? But no, there was some surety in the way he looked forward to their Defense sessions; there was something about the way he knew the bitter lines of Draco’s mouth, even when he was sneering, even when Harry wanted to punch him for something he’d said. And if he were being entirely truthful, he’d seen it back in July, that night at the club, when Draco had tipped his head back and moved against Pansy and looked at Harry, as if he knew, as if he wanted to know. Jealous and furious and challenging, his gaze had been, but he’d looked at Harry and Harry only, and Harry had remembered that.

He sat there, staring down at the photos and the picture of his father and Sirius wrestling in the grass without really seeing it at all. The picture turned into shadows when Remus _Nox_ ’d the lights and, with a last good night, moved to the stairs, but it was a long time before Harry followed him, and even longer before he finally descended into sleep.

Harry woke out of habit in the early morning on Christmas, padding out of bed and to the window. Snow had built up on his windowsill and the world outside was covered in white, but the sky perfectly clear. He thought it fitting: surreal, like the past few days had been. He almost expected it when Draco appeared like a ghost at his door, looking irritable, hair rumpled from sleep.

"Some horrible owl is trying to bite me," he muttered. "Got packages for you. I expect it’s because your room has no windows. They're on my bed."

"Ron and Hermione!" Harry exclaimed eagerly, shouldering past Draco. The owl was gone, but Harry found an abundance of presents among Draco's sheets that suggested more than one trip. He sneaked a guilty glance at Draco. "Sorry if they woke you up."

Draco rolled his eyes. "I'm not friendless, you know. I've got owls of my own. Sit down, Potter. You're up, I'm up, so you might as well."

Sliding uncomfortably onto the edge of Draco's bed, Harry glanced towards his pile. He pulled a package from Hermione towards him, sliding his finger under the edge of the attached letter. Draco sat cross-legged towards the head of the bed, already engrossed in his own haul.

Harry lost his reluctance in the excitement of gift opening. They both paid more attention to the piles in their laps than to each other: Harry gave a murmur of appreciation when he saw that Hermione had found him books that weren't quite as dry as _Hogwarts: A History_ , and Draco "hmph"-ed his disapproval at a set of dress robes from Pansy. Their eyes met once, almost furtively, in the middle of tasting sweets. Harry had Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans (New and Improved Flavors!) from Ron, as well as several suspicious tins, care of Fred and George, that he refused to touch. Draco was perusing his stash of gourmet chocolates.

"Um," said Harry, who had almost forgotten that he was sharing a bed with Draco. "Good year?"

"Not bad." Draco proffered a chocolate, which Harry took, then leapt back as if stung. "What _is_ that?"

Nonplussed, Harry looked down. "What's what? Oh, this? It's a Weasley jumper. Mrs. Weasley sent it for me."

"What," said Draco, in the same distasteful tones, "is it doing on my bed?"

Harry laughed. "What's the matter? Afraid it'll corrupt your wardrobe when you've got your back turned?"

"That thing is not going anywhere near my wardrobe. It's a disgrace. Just look at it! It's got a banana on the front! What kind of Christmas gift is that? Does she think you have gorilla blood?"

"Draco—"

"Now that I think about it, you do have a certain resemblance to Goyle. Not to mention—"

"It's a _lightning bolt_ , idiot."

"Oh." Draco gave him a skeptical look, as if he had known that all along. "Well, don't let it go to your head. Ha ha ha. Your head."

Harry rubbed his scar, looking exasperated. "That wasn’t funny. If I didn't know better, I'd say you've been waiting years just to say that."

"What can I say? I've got a natural talent."

"For making my life miserable?" Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Now that you mention it, yes."

They stared at each other. Harry had never seen Draco quite so open: he seemed different, less precise, with his hair falling all over, leaning back against the headboard of his bed. Harry thought of the way Draco had looked just before he kissed Harry, laughter in his eyes, leaning down beside him.

"Well," Draco said, rather abruptly, "Happy Christmas, anyway."

That decided Harry, and he slid off Draco's bed with a quick, "Don't move! I'll be right back." He left Draco staring after him as he hurried to retrieve the little package tucked away in a pocket of his robes. He’d bought it for Ginny, but had been forced to keep it when he’d lied to Ron so they could buy the Puffskein.

"Here," Harry muttered sheepishly when he returned and thrust the package at Draco. The other boy looked shocked and almost dropped the bundle, confusion creasing his expression as he slid a fingernail under the Sellotape.

"I wasn't aware that we were exchanging presents."

"Well, we werent—it's not much, I just—had it around—well, you probably have a million of them anyway, but—" Harry paused, suddenly aware that he was babbling, and shut up. For one stunned, quiet second, he realized that he actually wanted Draco to like it.

"Oh!" Draco exclaimed, and then, holding the Snitch up between forefinger and thumb, smirked. "Rubbing it in, are you, Potter?"

"What?"

"That I never catch it." To Harry's surprise, he didn't sound malicious. More amused than anything. "I used to have one that I stole from Madam Hooch, but I lost it. Thanks."

Harry found, sizing up Draco's expression, that the thank you was genuine. He was gratified. "You've got to put a Mobilipennae charm on it to make it fly, I think. The salesman said it was good for Seeker practice."

"So eager to lose, are you?"

Harry laughed, too. "Like you could ever beat me. I'm not worried."

"You should be." Draco glanced down at the gold wings and smiled. "Thanks," he said again. "I didn't get you anything. I would have. I'll have to—"

"It's a _present_ ," Harry exclaimed. "It's not something you owe."

"I suppose." Draco looked thoughtful, glancing down at the pile of gifts beside him.

“Anyway, you already gave me something.”

Draco’s eyes flew up to meet his. “Excuse me?”

“The dragon, remember?”

“That was repayment, Potter. Lord, you’ve the memory of a goldfish—"

Harry leaned forward, effectively cutting Draco off mid-sentence. “You know,” he said softly, “I think the lines have kind of been blurring since we started Defense.”

“Which was after—" Draco began, and halted again, looking at him uncertainly. “Potter—"

“Come on,” Harry breathed, aware of the subtle tension that had sparked up immediately between them. Draco was staring at him as if transfixed. He was staring right back. He said, quiet, “I’ve got something to show you.”

And leaned back. Draco blinked, as if waking up, and gave him an annoyed glare.

"Right now?" Draco's voice was indignant, the spell broken. "Aren't you hungry? It's barely morning."

Holding up his stash of sweets, Harry shrugged. "Not particularly. If you don't want to come, fine, I’ll go by myself—"

"I'm coming," Draco said hurriedly. "Just let me get dressed."

Harry went to leave his packages in his room and change out of his pyjamas. When he stepped into the hallway, Draco was waiting. “It’s downstairs,” he whispered, gesturing towards Remus’s door in a signal for quiet. Draco tiptoed carefully downstairs behind him.

“This had better be worth it,” Draco began, sounding irritable, but Harry held a finger to his lips.

“Shh. I don’t want to wake Remus up.”

Remus had showed Harry the motorbike before school had started, and he found it in the exact same place, in a dim little shed that opened into the outdoors. Spellbound, he ran a finger across the seat.

Draco said contemptuously beside him, “What is it?”

“It’s Sirius’s motorbike,” Harry said. “He gave it to me.”

Sounding, if possible, even more skeptical, Draco said, “It’s some Muggle contraption, isn’t it, Potter? I don’t trust it. Is this what you wanted to show me? Because I’m certainly not impressed—"

“It flies,” Harry said casually. “I thought we could try it out. You know, unless you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Draco snapped. “Although you’re thick if you think you can make me do everything by simply telling me I’m too scared to do it.”

Harry grinned at him. “But you always respond so well. Come on. Technically it’s not anything Muggle anymore, because he made it fly.”

“It was still made by a Muggle,” Draco sneered.

“Well, fine,” Harry said, making a big show of pulling off its cover and climbing onto it. It gleamed at him under a thin layer of dust, and he blew gently on the controls, wiping at them with his sleeve. One of the switches read INVISIBILITY in large black letters. “Look, I’ll go, and I’ll just tell you about it when I get back—"

That seemed to do the trick, because it was only seconds before Draco settled on behind him, his knees bumping the sides of Harry’s thighs. “Potter,” he said, his breath hot in Harry’s ear, “you do know how to fly this ridiculous apparatus, don’t you?”

Harry glanced down at the controls, and then to where the key hung, tantalizing, in the ignition. He had no idea.

“Of course,” he said confidently.

Several minutes later, they were in the sky.

The wind was whistling by Harry’s ears, and the bike was emitting a low roar, thrumming beneath him; it was so much more _real_ than flying on a broomstick, here with his fingers clutching the handles and the streets of London spread out below them. Harry could feel Draco’s hands fisted in his jumper, the press of his knuckles against Harry’s ribs, and there was a faint tickle of warm breath on the back of his neck. He swallowed.

Yeah. He wanted this.

They didn’t stay up for very long, mostly because it didn’t occur to Harry until they were in the sky exactly how the motorbike was fueled, if it even needed to be, and then he had no idea what would happen if somehow they ran out. Also, he wasn’t exactly certain if the Invisibility control worked, though he thought it did, and the last thing he wanted was to be confronted with an angry Ministry owl on Christmas.

Still, it was one of the best experiences Harry had had in months, he realized as they landed and purred to a halt back in the shed. He felt almost as if it were Sirius’s Christmas present to him; he felt closer to Sirius there, even if Sirius was gone forever, even if he was dead.

And, for the first time since Sirius had ceased laughing and stepped backwards into his long, endless fall, Harry almost felt—at peace with it.

He felt closer to Draco, too: it was impossible for Harry not to be acutely aware of how closely Draco was pressed against him, how Draco’s chin had nearly been resting on Harry’s shoulder the entire time, Draco’s arms around his ribs. As they settled to a stop, he could feel Draco breathing harshly against his ear for one fleeting moment, and then the other boy climbed off.

Harry turned the key and climbed off himself, feeling slightly shaky. He wasn’t sure if this was to be attributed to the experience itself, or to Draco.

Both, maybe.

“So,” Harry said, leaning against the still-warm bike. His palms were resting behind him on the seat, hair impossibly mussed by the wind.

“Yeah,” Draco said. He was suddenly a lot closer than Harry had thought, and Harry’s mouth went dry.

He managed, rather breathlessly, “It’s kind of like flying.”

“But different,” Draco added, his voice low. “Don’t you think? More—"

“More—physical,” Harry said hoarsely, as if the words weren’t his own. Draco looked a mixture between terrified and defiant, and without thinking, Harry reached out a hand and settled it gently in the material of Draco’s shirt. It was slippery in his fingers, and he tugged it forward, a little. Draco stumbled forward with it.

“Potter,” he said, uncertain.

“Hey,” Harry said, softly, and with that, leaned forward, pulled Draco into it, and kissed him.

Draco’s lips were hot and chapped from the wind, and they opened in surprise against Harry’s. He felt his pulse thundering as the kiss deepened and Draco’s hands settled tentatively at his waist, Draco’s fingers curling around the wool of his jumper. Harry ran his hand up Draco’s side, the silk dragging against his palm, and Draco gave a soft, sharp breath against their kiss. Curiously, Harry slid his hand back down to Draco’s hip, and felt his breath hiss in again.

This, this was interesting, this experimentation—it was like mapping out a new continent, spread out under his hands. He learned the way Draco’s lips moved, more gently than he’d expected. He opened his eyes, once, and watched the shadows play over Draco’s eyelids, the soft angles of his cheekbones. Harry pulled on his bottom lip gently with his teeth. He slid his tongue hesitantly against Draco’s parted lips until they opened and Harry pulled him closer, swept his tongue into Draco’s mouth. He remembered the sounds Draco made, the way he moved into Harry, the way his cool fingers slipped up under Harry’s jumper and settled around his hip, and the way that made Harry’s stomach squirm pleasurably.

When they stopped, and Harry let his hand fall from Draco’s side, Draco’s fingers were still curved possessively around Harry’s hip. Harry flushed as they broke away and he turned to take the key from the motorbike’s ignition. It was better than speaking. He had no idea what to say.

“I—suppose we should go in, then,” he said haltingly after an awkward moment had passed. It was awful, this not-knowing, having just spent several minutes attached to Draco Malfoy’s lips and now having nothing to say to him, not even a half-arsed insult.

But Draco looked over at him, and blinked sort of slowly, and it was like a secret, really; like the night of Harry’s birthday, like Tonks, but better, because there was something about the curve of Draco’s fingers as they hung at his side, the way he looked up, heavy-lidded as if from sleep.

“Unless you were thinking of setting up residence in this dingy little shed, Potter,” he said, mockingly, but he was smiling. “It seems your kind of place. I, for one, am starving.”

“Right,” Harry said, “yeah, breakfast,” and caught the door as Draco swung it open. From inside the kitchen, he heard Remus’s voice say,

“There you are—good morning, Draco—had a good Christmas?”

Harry stepped inside after him, trying to keep the smile off his face, with little success. “Morning, Remus,” he said innocently, shutting the door behind them. It was only breakfast, and it had been a very good Christmas already.

The day seemed to drag on excruciatingly after they had gotten through breakfast, as Harry’s thoughts remained solidly on the feel of Draco’s lips on his own, his fingers brushing against Harry’s hip. He relived it while playing chess with Remus; while talking through the fire to Ron and Hermione, who flushed when he asked about why she’d left Anthony’s; while watching Draco read an owl from his mother, sneer, and crumple it up. He thought about it so much that, by the time they both climbed the stairs and stood there in the darkness, he was nearly paralyzed by what to do next.

Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, Remus’s footfall sounded on the stairs below them, and Harry was forced to say quickly, “Good night, Draco,” before hurrying off to his own room. He wanted to reach out to touch him, to grasp his wrist, before they separated, but there was no time, and he went to his room feeling strangely dejected.

It took him less than half an hour to give in and climb out of bed again, creak his door open softly, and tiptoe back across to Draco’s room.

Draco was lying on his stomach, carefully writing what appeared to be a very long letter, and he looked up with alarm when he heard the snick of the door. At the sight of Harry, he raised an eyebrow. “Potter,” he said.

“I—couldn’t sleep,” Harry said lamely, slipping the door shut beside him. Now that he was here, he felt presumptuous to have come. “Who’re you writing to? Your mum?”

“Hardly,” Draco snapped. “If she hasn’t the time to meet me, I certainly haven’t time to owl her. I was writing to Pansy.”

Harry frowned. So that was what his mother’s owl had said. Feeling suddenly sorry for him, he forgot his trepidation and crossed to sit beside him on the bed. “Well, maybe you can meet Pansy,” he suggested, unsure of what more to say. “Or, er, Blaise, or something.”

Draco gave him an annoyed look. “Potter,” he said. “Why do you think I didn’t stay at Pansy’s? Her parents think she should spend less time with me. It’s a sentiment most Pureblood families share.”

“But why? Because of your father?”

“An association with the Malfoy family might signify certain other alliances,” Draco explained irritably. “Fudge is paranoid, so he’s overzealous. You can see where it might lead.”

Before Harry knew it, he had his hand on Draco’s arm. “Sorry,” he said, softly, and was shocked to realize that he genuinely meant it. He was sorry that Draco’s entire world had turned against him when his father had been arrested. Yet he added, with quiet smugness, “But I’m not sorry that you didn’t stay at Pansy’s.”

“Oh?” Draco rolled over on his back and looked up at him, one eyebrow quirked. “And why might that be?”

“Because I couldn’t do this,” Harry whispered, heart pounding, sliding down next to him on the bed. “Or this.” He slipped his arm over Draco and his fingers found the space where Draco’s pyjama bottoms met his shirt and touched the skin there. Draco felt warm and malleable beside him. “Or—"

“ _Potter_ ,” Draco said, sounding impatient, and reached up to tug Harry down to him.

Kissing Draco was different this way: Harry ended up slanted over him, one arm propping him up, the other stroking at Draco’s shoulder without Harry even realizing he was doing it. It was easier this time, Draco’s mouth open under his, the rough brush of his tongue on Draco’s, the way he slid one hand up Harry’s back as if he couldn’t stop himself.

Harry had been thinking about it all day, as much as he’d dared, but nothing could compare to the way Draco was pressed up against him, warm and willing. He smelled faintly of soap and something unnameably sweet, and when Harry’s knee slid somehow effortlessly between his thighs, he arched up to meet him.

Draco hardly protested when Harry’s mouth found the juncture of his neck and shoulder, then slid up to plant warm kisses along his neck until he mouthed the skin just behind Draco’s ear and felt Draco surge up against him. It was all instinctual now, Harry’s fingers yanking impatiently at the buttons on Draco’s pyjama top, his mouth coming back down on Draco’s, which opened eagerly for the kiss. They were rocking against each other, the friction unbearable, and Harry thought distractedly how smooth Draco’s skin was—

It was like exploring again, his hand curled around Draco’s hip, sliding upwards around his side as Draco sighed in his mouth, palming across the tautness of his stomach and up against his ribs. A whole expanse of warm, silk-smooth skin, and his palm brushed across one of Draco’s bared nipples, which made him shiver and breathe heavily against Harry’s mouth. Harry found it incredibly addicting, and did it again.

He said, in a strained whisper, “Can I—"

“Can you what, Potter?” Draco managed to snap amusedly, even out of breath, his cheeks flushed. “You’ll have to be a bit more specific, I’m afraid I haven’t a clue what you’re asking.”

Not being in the mood to retort, Harry gave up asking, stopped Draco from talking with his mouth, and slid one hand down over his ribs and into his pyjama bottoms. Draco hissed sharply.

“Potter, what—"

“Shh.” It was awkward from this angle, and the feeling of somebody else’s cock in his hand was entirely alien to Harry, but Draco was hard and drew in a jagged breath when Harry slid his thumb over the head, Harry feeling a strange surge of power low in his belly. He could feel Draco’s pyjamas wet against the back of his hand as he tightened his grip and Draco’s hips jerked a little as he pulled.

“H-harder,” Draco muttered, tearing his mouth away from Harry’s, and he sounded irritated at having to say it at all, embarrassed even in the darkness between them. Harry thought it endearing, amusing, and incredibly hot.

Draco moaned before he came, a guttural “ _oh_ ,” and then shuddered against Harry. This, too, was different, his hand sticky with come, dragging it awkwardly against the waistband of Draco’s bottoms. He had little choice but to wipe it on his shirt as Draco slid over him without preamble and seized Harry’s mouth with his own.

This wasn’t like kissing in the shed, lazy and tentative in the weak morning light; Harry was gasping up into his mouth, pleasure shooting up his body, and they were kissing sloppily, desperately, a mash of tongues and lips and teeth. Draco bit him too hard, once, and he groaned, “ow,” and Draco licked at it, then kept licking, tongue hot and wet against Harry’s jaw, and he groaned for an entirely different reason.

Harry wasn’t sure he’d _ever_ felt like this.

The rest of the holidays flew by, and if Remus suspected that anything was happening between the two boys, he said nothing of it. In fact, 12 Grimmauld Place felt silent and dark most of the time; without the entire Weasley family in residence, and Mrs. Weasley’s ever-present insistence on warmth and cleanliness, it seemed to have reverted to its empty, shadowed self. Remus spent most of the time in the library, which left Harry and Draco alone for a good part of the time.

Not that Harry minded in the least.

He hadn’t told Hermione what he had decided, yet, though she had owled him twice; Harry had said simply that he was getting to know Draco. Which was true, in a fashion. He was becoming very well acquainted with the way Draco squirmed under him when he put his mouth on Draco’s neck, and the exact way he hissed if Harry pulled too hard, and the swollen sight of his lips when they’d spent all afternoon kissing. He knew well the touch of Draco’s long fingers curling around his cock, and the sensitive spot just beneath Draco’s hips, and the way he shuddered against Harry, eyes squeezed closed.

It seemed to Harry that it was an interlude in time, a strange week where neither one of them had to acknowledge much of reality, trapped in this bleak, shadow-cloaked house in each other’s arms. A growing feeling of dread niggled at him as the end of the holidays approached. He realized that he wasn’t the only one when, on the day of their departure, Draco nearly dragged him inside his room and pushed him back on the bed.

“Remus will be looking for us,” Harry gasped out as Draco wrenched at the button on his trousers.

“Don’t talk,” Draco whispered harshly and sank down on top of him, both of their clothes half tugged off, Harry’s hands tangled in his hair. Harry’s foot curled around the back of his knee and pulled him closer, and they surged against each other for several urgent minutes; Harry could feel the slide of Draco’s cock against his abdomen and Draco was breathing heavily in his ear, faster now, as pleasure shocked through Harry’s body and he felt Draco tense, bucking against him, and watched his face as he came, mouth a silent O.

Draco collapsed against him and breathed, “Potter,” and the way he said it nearly made Harry come right then. But Draco snaked a hand between them and curled his fist around Harry’s cock, and in very little time at all, Harry was gasping—his body arced upwards, one hand curled almost painfully in Draco’s shirt—he could hear himself moaning, hips jerking upwards in Draco’s grasp—

—and he came, shuddering against Draco, just as they both heard Remus shout from downstairs, “Boys? Harry, Draco? Are you ready?”

"We've got to—we've got to go," Harry said, barely waiting a moment before scrambling to his feet in order to pull on his trousers and press helplessly at his hair. For a moment, he saw Draco lying there, trousers and pants around his knees and his shirt flung open, unbuttoned, looking up at him with a half-lidded, almost contented gaze; and looking at him, Harry felt almost—what? Possessive? Protective? But the moment passed as Draco sat up and pulled his clothes back on, just as Remus shouted for them again.

"Coming," Harry yelled back, stuffing his feet in his trainers without unlacing them. The back of one was crammed under his heel, and he wriggled his foot until it slipped on. He reached for his robes just as Draco stood up, startlingly close, and put a hand on his shoulder.

"We've got to—" Harry said, much quieter, and then trailed off.

Draco leaned in and kissed him, swiftly, so that one second Harry was opening his mouth to the familiar press of lips, and the next, the touch was gone. Draco reached up with his hand, ran a thumb across Harry's lower lip, and said almost softly, "Lupin's waiting."

They went.


	7. Chapter 7

The first two weeks of spring term passed in a blur. As if to make up for the holidays, the professors seemed to assign twice as much homework, and when Harry wasn’t working or listening to Hermione tell him that he should be, he was meeting with Remus to plan for the DA or visiting Dumbledore to practice his Occlumency. And, nearly every evening, Harry and Draco would find each other—in the Room of Requirement or any number of dusty, unused classrooms, and even once in the Quidditch changing rooms, after Slytherin practice ended and all the other players had gone.

The first time, Harry had felt guilty about telling Ron that he was meeting Lisa about Potions, even as Hermione was giving him a suspicious, warning look from over the top of her Charms text. He had second thoughts all the way to the classroom and had nearly convinced himself that it was all a terrible mistake when he saw Draco, waiting irritably on top of a desk, and promptly forgot every reason he had.

The next time had been easier. And, while Hermione attempted daily to get him alone, Harry pointedly avoided that confrontation. It was something he wasn’t ready to face.

He allowed himself no time to think about it, afraid of what kind of doubts would crop up if he did. Instead, he spent his time learning the way Draco trembled when he came; the soft noises he made in the back of his throat when Harry slid his mouth over Draco’s prick; the way Draco looked, flushed and eager, when Harry pressed him against the wall and slid hard against him. They perfected the desperate slide of skin on skin, thrusting against each other in the shadows, their breathing harsh and loud in the silent classrooms. They became experts at swiftly half-undressing in corners and keeping silent after curfew. Harry knew the firm clutch of Draco’s fingers around his cock, and the way Draco fisted his hand in the hair at the nape of Harry’s neck just before he came.

They never went farther than that, despite Harry’s breathless suggestion just after they’d returned to Hogwarts; Draco had reacted with such violent surprise that Harry had flushed and kissed him to avoid having to speak.

By the second week of January, the weather had taken an unexpected turn for the worse, giving rise to the rumor that the Ravenclaw-Slytherin match would be cancelled. Nevertheless, that Saturday Harry found himself sitting in the Ravenclaw section with Lisa, Padma, and Theodore Nott, who looked sullen and not very enthusiastic about Quidditch, even if his House was playing.

“I hate winter,” Padma was saying, her teeth chattering as she leaned into Theodore. Beside her, Lisa’s cheeks were pink with cold. “Oh, here comes the team—look, there’s Cho—"

She and Lisa waved. Harry scowled.

“Where’s Hermione?” Lisa asked, as Draco coldly shook the Ravenclaw captain’s hand on the pitch and both teams turned to mount their brooms. “Isn’t she coming?”

“Doing Runes, I think,” Harry shrugged. “She isn’t much of a Quidditch fan.”

“No, but Ron Weasley is,” Lisa said slyly, and Padma giggled. “Nor do I remember Ron being in our Runes class, now that I think about it . . .”

Harry had to shout to be heard over Ackerley, who was exclaiming excitedly over Ravenclaw possession of the Quaffle. “He decided to keep Hermione company,” he yelled, thinking of how Ron had reddened that morning and mumbled that perhaps it was too cold for attending the match. Harry had never known Ron to miss a Quidditch match in his life.

Padma smirked. “What a surprise. I’m sure Anthony will be thrilled to hear that.”

“How is he?” Harry asked, then winced as Ackerley shouted just above them, “RAVENCLAW SCORE!” He cheered with the rest of the crowd, then added, “You aren’t mad at Hermione, are you? She liked him a lot—"

“We want Hermione to be happy,” Lisa said scornfully, as if that should be obvious. “Anthony’s liked her since fourth year. But I think he always knew—you know, about Ron."

Harry stared at them in shock for a moment. He supposed he had been a bit caught up in fourth year, what with the Triwizard Tournament, but how had he missed that development? But then, he hadn’t known about Hermione’s friendship with Viktor Krum until the whole school knew. And besides, he doubted that, in fourth year, he could have even said who Anthony Goldstein was.

“Anyway,” Padma added, tucking her arm around Theodore’s elbow, “it’s Anthony. His Stodginess. I’d be surprised if he even got up the nerve to kiss her.”

Padma and Lisa giggled, but Theodore didn’t appear to be paying attention to anything, including the Quidditch match, and Harry was rather put off by the thought of Hermione kissing anyone, whether it was Ron or Anthony. He supported it in principle, of course, but he wasn’t exactly keen on thinking about it. But then, he very much doubted she’d want to imagine him kissing Draco, either.

“But we did see him chatting up Morag at the Hufflepuff party last year,” Lisa said, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, that. Got into the Firewhiskey, didn’t he? Poor Morag.”

Just then, as if on cue, Ackerley shouted, “And there goes Baddock after McDougal, swerving around Chang, who’s sweeping the pitch for the Snitch—looks a bit rough out there, hard flying—"

“It’s really coming down,” Padma said, frowning as she picked up a pair of Omniculars and focused them on the field. “Oh, poor Cho, she narrowly missed that Bludger! It’s a wonder any of them can see past the tips of their brooms.”

It was beginning to snow harder, and Harry shook off the snow that was melting furiously in his hair. “Hey, Padma,” he said, “can I borrow your Omniculars?”

She handed them to him and he turned them towards the field. Cho came into focus, but he frowned and moved them away—yes, there was Draco, shouting and gesturing to Baddock as he flew by him. He was leaning forward as if to peer through the snowfall, and Harry wondered if it was even possible to see the Snitch in such conditions.

“And that’s another foul from Slytherin!” Ackerley bellowed. “Rotten cheaters—er, good for the Ravenclaws, I mean—and that’s a penalty to Ravenclaw as the players move towards the Ravenclaw side—there goes Morag from the center, and she’s up against Bletchley for the Slytherins—"

“GO MORAG!” Padma shouted out, right in Harry’s ear, and he jumped. Theodore looked similarly put out, though he merely brushed snow off his lap and stared disinterestedly at the Slytherin goalhoops.

“But what’s this?” Ackerley boomed. “It seems Cho Chang for Ravenclaw is shooting after what appears to be the Snitch—dodges a Bludger from Goyle, well spotted, Cho—must be hard to see a thing up there—and—" Ackerley broke off, then began babbling rapidly. “And Hooch calls the match! What’s going on? Looks like Morag McDougal, Chaser for Ravenclaw, ran into a goal-post—Madam Hooch is—what’s that she’s signaling? Oh, match canceled, looks like the conditions are too rough—"

Through the Omniculars, despite the snow, Harry could see Draco glowering, red-faced, at his team. He looked enraged and was talking rapidly as they descended to dismount, and it was with reluctance that Harry handed Padma her Omniculars back and stood up, shaking off the snow.

“Oh, I’m glad they canceled,” Padma said, smiling at him. “But Cho was so close, there! Still, it’s awfully cold out. We’re going to the kitchens to warm up, Harry, do you want to come?”

For an instant, the thought of the bright, busy kitchens with their pleasant aromas and roaring fireplace was nearly too much to resist. But he thought of Draco and said reluctantly, “I’d better not. I’ll see you in Potions, though.”

“Bye, Harry,” Lisa and Padma waved, and Theodore might have grunted something akin to a goodbye.

Harry dawdled in the stands for awhile and had a brief conversation with a shivering Stewart Ackerley, who at first forgot to use the Quietus spell and shouted, loud enough for the whole crowd to hear, “HELLO, POTTER!” Finally, when Harry glimpsed several Slytherins leaving the changing rooms, he too trudged back towards the school, hoping Draco would be one of the last to come. But then, knowing him, he would be; he always took an inordinately long time after Quidditch practice, and Harry guessed he did the same every morning. He could already hear Draco saying, in lofty tones, “A Malfoy must always look impeccable, Potter.” Harry snickered to himself at that, which earned him a suspicious look from Blaise Zabini, who was passing at the time.

He was still waiting for Draco when, nearly a quarter of an hour later, Draco stepped inside the Entrance Hall, looking wet and furious. He started in surprise when he saw Harry.

“Hi,” Harry said, glancing around before stepping closer to Draco. “That was some match. Even if Baddock couldn’t keep his hands off Morag’s broom—and that Bludger that Goyle hit to the crowd—"

“He wasn’t bumphing on purpose,” Draco snapped. His hair was wet with melting snow and his cheeks red with cold. “If you happened to miss it, Potter, my entire team was blinded by snow. Naturally he had no idea McDougal was going for a goal.”

Harry snorted, but he let it go. “When’s the re-match?”

“Hooch hasn’t scheduled it yet,” Draco said. “In a few weeks, I should think.” After a moment, he said with a sneer, “Stupid Chang was sniveling in the snow, of course. Pity that’s the closest she’ll ever get to the Snitch.”

“Cho’s a good player,” Harry said honestly, though he had to agree that Ravenclaw had been looking at a fairly sure loss to Slytherin when the match had been halted, even with all of Slytherin’s fouls. “It was a pretty good match, too.”

“If you call flying blind through a blizzard a good match,” Draco complained. “I can’t feel my toes. I likely have frostbite. Of course Hooch wouldn’t dare stop the match for Slytherin, even though it was obvious that Pritchard nearly fell off his broom. Only when a Ravenclaw gets hurt, then it’s clear the weather’s too bad to play. This sort of treatment is insufferable—"

“Draco,” Harry said affectionately, and stepped closer, “shut up.”

Draco’s eyes widened, however, and he stumbled backwards. “Potter, what exactly do you think you’re doing? Anyone could see!”

“There’s no one around. Dinner’s not for hours, no one will come down here—"

“No,” Draco said heatedly, “you have to stop doing this, people are starting to suspect something! Pansy saw you lurking around Slytherin on Thursday, she keeps demanding what you could want with me, and I keep telling her you’re just desperate for Potions help, but she doesn’t—"

“Why can’t you just tell her?”

Draco stared at him in shock. Finally he snapped, “Potter, that’s impossible.”

“I thought you said Pansy was your friend,” Harry shrugged. “Maybe she’d understand.”

“You’re the one who doesn’t understand,” Draco hissed. “Maybe it’s all rainbows and Butterbeer up in Gryffindor Tower, but don’t you dare tell me how to act in my own House!” He locked eyes with Harry and, seeming to have glimpsed something in Harry’s gaze, added pointedly, “Besides, you haven’t told the Weasel, have you?”

“Don’t call him that, and no, not yet,” Harry muttered. “But he knows I’m doing Defense with you. He said he couldn’t stop me. And Hermione says—"

“As if I care what Granger thinks,” Draco interrupted bitterly. “Don’t you think it’s bad enough with Nott? Oh, I saw him at the match with you.”

“Nott didn’t say a word to me! He just sat there with Padma and looked angry!”

“It’s the principle,” Draco seethed. “Nott’s a traitor now—he’s never been much of a Slytherin, but now that he’s friends with Dumbledore’s favorite, now that he goes around with Harry Potter—"

“Stop it!” Harry retorted. “What are you, jealous? He has nothing to do with anything, Nott and I aren’t even friends—"

“Potter,” Draco shouted, suddenly loud in the empty entranceway, “you put my father in Azkaban!”

They stared at one another in the strained silence, dim light streaming in around them, until Harry finally said fiercely, “Yeah. I did.” He reached out and yanked Draco towards him until they collided and Draco gasped in spite of himself, already hardening against Harry’s thigh. Harry said, low, “And here I thought you’d forgotten.”

“As if—I could,” Draco hissed out, his eyes locked with Harry’s. His hands flew up almost involuntarily to grasp Harry’s hips, dragging him closer.

Draco’s hands were freezing and Harry jerked back in surprise, but before Draco could move, Harry had seized him again. For a swift moment, he crushed his mouth to Draco’s; it was angry, brutal, as he shoved his tongue in Draco’s mouth and Draco fought back; no finesse, no tenderness, just Draco thrusting against his hip and them devouring one another. Draco hissed when Harry pulled away.

“I’d do it again,” Harry said roughly, dangerously. “Don’t you ever doubt it. I wouldn’t even hesitate.”

Eyes wide and furious, Draco snarled, “Fuck you, Potter.”

“Actually,” Harry retorted, unable to stop himself even if he wanted to, “I don’t think you’re ready for that, are you, Malfoy?”

Draco sprang away from him then, looking murderous, but before Harry could even react, one of the entranceway doors creaked open. It let in an enormous gust of wind and snow, and with it . . .

“Tonks?” Harry said, every bit of his anger and arousal vanishing, so overcome was he by surprise. His heart was racing at how close they’d come to being caught. “What are—what are you doing here?”

She looked wet and bedraggled and almost unrecognizable without her familiar smile, but when she saw him, it peeked out. Dressed in shocking red robes, with her hair blonde and spiky, she stood there dripping and grinned at Harry. “Quite the snowstorm out there,” she said, stomping her feet a few times. Harry noticed that she was wearing the same large boots she’d been wearing at the Three Broomsticks. “Weather’s not like this in London, I can tell you that much. Anyway, I’m back for good, didn’t Remus tell you?”

“I haven’t talked to him in a couple days,” Harry said guiltily. The last time he’d spoken to Remus, it had been after a DA meeting, and he’d quickly made up an excuse to go meet Draco. Remus had looked at him so suspiciously that Harry had avoided any one-on-one conversations since, in the fear that Remus knew and would do something drastic, like drag Harry before Dumbledore. “What happened? Did you—"

It was then, when he was about to ask if they had caught Lucius Malfoy and his friends, that he remembered Draco standing furiously beside him, and glanced over. Draco’s fists were clenched and he was glaring daggers at both of them.

“Botched up a job, actually,” Tonks said, something like guilt crossing her face. “Rough spot up there, we thought Moody might be captured, but it turned out all right. Still, you know how he is; he maintains I scared all the Death Eaters off, being dead clumsy. Good old Mad-Eye, he got in a bit of a stink—he’s been after Bellatrix for ages, you know—and he sent me back here.” She appeared to notice Draco then, too, because she looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “Well, Malfoy. I don’t suppose you’ve heard from your father lately, have you?”

“Of course I haven’t,” Draco snapped. “And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

Harry turned on him sharply, their previous exchange looming recent in his mind. “You haven’t, have you?” he demanded, his gaze so piercing that Draco took half a step backwards. “You would tell me?”

Draco looked livid. “I don’t have to tell you anything!”

“Well,” Tonks said abruptly, interrupting just as Harry opened his mouth to shout at him, “no sense standing around in wet clothes, is there? I’m off to have a nice bath before dinner. See you, Harry.” With that, she gave him a wink before stomping wetly off towards the stairs.

There was silence for a long moment before Draco hissed, “Get out of my sight, Potter.”

Harry didn’t need telling twice.

It was still snowing fiercely outside the next evening; Harry watched it come down outside the windows of the Gryffindor common room, turning the world white. All around him, he could hear people talking and laughing, and he had his Transfiguration book cradled in his lap, but he was thinking instead about Draco, and the way he had stared at Harry in such shock when Harry had hissed about his father.

Technically, it was their first fight. Although if you looked at it that way, it had been a long time in the making; they’d only been practicing for years how to hurt each other.

But Harry had thought, naively perhaps, that what had happened at Grimmauld Place had changed some things between them. Maybe he’d been wrong. Was this the issue they’d been dancing around all this time?

On some level, Harry couldn’t blame Draco; Harry, of all people, knew what it was like to be missing a father, and moreover, to feel stunned and betrayed to find out that his father wasn’t perfect. But everything Harry had said was true, and it chilled him to know that, despite all of Harry’s rationalizing to the contrary, Draco might still be the loyal son of whom Lucius could be proud.

“Harry!” Hermione said sharply, slamming a book shut on the table. Harry jumped in surprise.

“What?”

“I’ve only been calling your name for five minutes,” she explained with exasperation. “You haven’t been paying attention all night. You’ve been on the same page for nearly half an hour.”

Harry gave her an annoyed look. “Maybe you should pay attention to your own reading instead of mine,” he snapped.

“I’ve finished my own reading,” Hermione said patiently, “and so has Ron. We were talking about who the new spy could be, and Ron said he reckoned it was Professor Kothari, but I told him that she didn’t seem like a spy, and then I asked you what you thought.”

“Oh,” Harry said, at a loss for anything else. “Well, I suppose she could be.”

Ron snorted. “Real helpful, Harry. Thanks loads.”

“I’ve seen her wrists, though,” Hermione offered. “She rolled up her sleeves the other day, when we were making those potions for heat compresses. She doesn’t have a Dark Mark.”

“And she’s nice,” Harry added. “Way better than Snape.”

“Of course,” Hermione hurried to qualify, “just because she’s nice doesn’t mean she couldn’t be a spy. And maybe they’ve got her under Imperius, I suppose that could be one possibility. But why would Dumbledore trust her? What could she really do?”

Harry suddenly remembered Professor Kothari telling him sadly that she lamented Snape’s death as a colleague, and something itched, some missing link. He frowned. “I know I heard something about her, what was it? I was . . . reading . . . oh! Draco’s letter!”

Ron stared at him in shock.

“I mean, Malfoy had a letter from his mum,” Harry said quickly, “and I read it. You know, I was looking for any signs he was working for Voldemort. It was all rubbish about decorating and France, but she did say that she’d heard, what was it? Positive things about Kothari?”

“Positive things don’t mean Order of the Phoenix members in Narcissa Malfoy’s circle, I’m sure,” Hermione said darkly. “But that doesn’t mean it is her. Still, we should keep an eye out.”

“Yeah,” Ron muttered. “Like an eye in Malfoy’s correspondence. He didn’t get anything over the hols, did he, Harry?”

Harry felt a stab of guilt. Ron had never really got over the fact that Draco had visited Grimmauld Place for over a week. “I didn’t see his letters, Ron,” he said quietly.

“Then what was the bloody point of having him there? Weren’t you checking up on him? He could have been getting secrets of the Order—"

“There wasn’t anything going on!” Harry snapped, his voice rising. Ignoring the fact that he was fighting with Draco and still sticking up for him, he pushed on, “Look, at least he didn’t go off to the Manor and meet Voldemort, all right?”

Hermione gave Harry a skeptical look. “You’re trying to save him from Voldemort? That’s why you had him for the hols?”

“I’m not trying to do anything!” Harry shouted, causing what appeared to be every fourth year Gryffindor to look over at him from the fire. He quieted, embarrassed. “I know who Draco Malfoy is, all right? I’m not an idiot and I haven’t forgotten the past five years, so don’t look at me like I’ve gone mad. It’s just—"

“It’s just what, Harry?” Hermione said, almost gently, when Harry stopped. But at that moment, Ginny sauntered up to them.

“What’s all the noise about now?” she said, her fifth year Transfiguration text tucked under her arm. “I could hear you yelling upstairs, Harry.”

“We were just talking about Malfoy,” Ron said dismissively. “It’s none of your business.”

“That’s nice,” Ginny said, as if she hadn’t heard him, and sat down next to Hermione. “What about Malfoy? He’s been strangely quiet lately, hasn’t he? I suppose the Slytherins are all still sad about Snape.”

Harry gave Ron a sharp look, as if to say, _You didn’t tell her?_ Ginny, however, caught the glance, and leaned forward.

“What? What’s going on? There’s no point in hiding things from me. I’m fifteen, Ron, don’t give me that look! Besides,” she added triumphantly, “I listened at the door with Fred and George’s Extendable Ears when you and Hermione were arguing at Christmas. Did Malfoy really stay with you, Harry?”

“It’s none of your business!” Ron said again, looking furious. “What’d you hear? You don’t have any right listening at my door!”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “If you’re worried that I know about you and Hermione, Charlie saw you kissing on the stairway the day before he left, didn’t he say anything? That’s why he kept giving you funny looks and chuckling at dinner.”

Ron had gone crimson and Hermione looked rather pink, but Harry couldn’t help grinning at Ginny, who looked pleased with herself. He had wondered exactly what had come of Ron’s revelation in Diagon Alley, but neither Ron nor Hermione had had the wherewithal to mention any new developments to him.

“The next time I see Charlie, I’ll kill him,” Ron muttered. “And as for you—"

“Tell me what you were talking about and I won’t tell Fred and George,” she said, grinning mischievously.

“You wouldn’t!”

“Oh, I would and I will,” Ginny said. And then, with a guilty look to her side, she said, “Sorry, Hermione.”

“We were actually talking about whether or not Professor Kothari is a spy for the Death Eaters,” Hermione said calmly, and when Ron glared at her, she sighed, “Oh, Ron, she’s got just as much of a right to know as we do. Ginny, Malfoy’s mum told him that she’d heard good things about Professor Kothari. That’s all. It could mean she’s the spy, but then again, it could mean nothing. What do you think?”

“Well, she is the only new staff,” Ginny mused. “Unless you count Tonks and Lupin—"

“This is why she shouldn’t be allowed to listen in!” Ron exclaimed. “Gin, Tonks is a half-blood! She’s an Auror! Lupin’s been fighting You-Know-Who since the first time! He knew Harry’s dad!”

Ginny gave him a withering stare. “I wasn’t saying either of them could be the spy, Ron. I was only listing new professors. But it could be a student, haven’t you thought of that? There are loads of kids You-Know-Who could get a hold of, I’ll bet.”

Ron looked grudgingly impressed. “That’s true. Maybe it’s Malfoy.”

Harry said immediately, “I already told you! It isn’t Malfoy!”

“You don’t know that,” Hermione said, though she sounded much calmer than Ron, and less thrilled at the prospect. “I know you think he’s too obvious of a choice, but maybe that’s the point. And you must admit, Harry, he’s got awfully close to you this year.”

“We’re practicing Defense!”

“So he can hex you?” Ginny asked, gazing across the table at him. “If he’s the spy, that’s not very smart, is it?”

“He helps me with Potions,” Harry said, rather weakly. “You don’t understand, it’s not like—"

“What reason would Malfoy have to help you with Potions?” Ron burst in. “He hates you, Harry! But if somebody told him to get close to you, then he would, right? I mean, you put his dad in Azkaban, why would he want to study Potions with you?”

Hermione said gently, “Ron does have a point, Harry.”

“You don’t understand!” Harry exclaimed again, his fight with Draco forgotten. The way Draco had pressed against him after flying the motorbike, his hair mussed from the wind and his eyes both fearful and hopeful . . . the way he had leaned over and kissed Harry the first time, so simply that there could not possibly be a hidden agenda there . . . how surely he had argued with Harry after the attack on Hogsmeade, telling him how it could not possibly be his fault . . .

“I don’t doubt you see some side of Malfoy he’s never shown to us,” Hermione told him. Her voice was patient, but even she sounded skeptical. “I trust your judgment. I know you wouldn’t go chasing after Malfoy if he hadn’t done something to merit your attention. But I wonder if he could be hiding something. He _is_ the most likely suspect.”

Harry felt like taking his Transfiguration book, throwing it on the floor, and stomping on it repeatedly. Instead, he snarled, “I thought we’d agreed Professor Kothari was the most likely suspect.”

“Are you blind?” Ron shouted at him. “Her or Malfoy? Who’s more likely to work for You-Know-Who? What’s happened to you, Harry? Has he hexed you senseless?”

“He hasn’t done anything to me!” Harry shouted back, even as he knew that was a lie. If he thought about it, truly, Draco had sparked something in him from the first time he’d stared at him so singularly, and Harry couldn’t think about him the same way anymore. But how could he explain that to them? How could he tell them the way Draco smiled sometimes, or the way there was a hidden vulnerability in the way he raged, or the way Draco thrust into Harry’s hand, his eyes squeezed shut with pleasure? How could he explain how Draco made him feel? Frustrated, yes, sometimes furious, but also—

Hermione was looking at him with a serious expression on her face, and Harry knew she’d gone beyond thinking it was good for House unity that he was working with Draco. “Oh, Harry,” she said softly. “You know he has.”

And Ginny, arms folded across her chest and her head tilted in curiosity, said so casually that Harry thought for a moment she’d been possessed by Luna Lovegood: “Do you fancy him?”

“What?” Ron yelped. “Gin!”

But Harry was speechless.

“Of course Harry doesn’t fancy that ugly little ferret!” Ron said loudly. “Ginny, how could you even ask him that? Harry would never . . .” He trailed off, just as his face drained of color. He turned and looked at Harry.

“I can explain,” Harry said weakly, but it was too late.

“YOU’RE SHAGGING MALFOY?” Ron shouted, leaping to his feet and causing everyone in the common room to swivel their heads in surprise to stare at Harry.

Hermione said quickly, “Ha, ha, Ron, that’s not funny! And sit down!” She looked agitatedly at the other occupants of the room, but once Ron seemed to have no more to say—probably due to the fact that Hermione was glaring at him so steadily that even Harry was afraid—they turned back to their work. “Ronald Weasley,” Hermione said, in a low voice, “if you know what’s good for you, keep your voice down. Now, can we talk civilly, or do you have to act like a bunch of stupid boys?”

“Ron,” Harry said, feeling sick, “listen, I—"

“First you can’t tell me that you’re meeting him for Defense, and now I’ve got to find out that you’re shagging him? In what, the bloody Room of Requirement?“ Ron blanched and turned his anger on Hermione. “ _Why are you just sitting there?_ You knew, did you? I’ll bet you did!”

“We haven’t, er, shagged,” Harry said, crimson, “it’s not like that—"

“What have you done, then?” Ron hissed. “So that’s why you don’t think Malfoy’s the spy—because he’s got his mouth on your cock all the time—"

“Ron!” Hermione said shrilly. Even Ginny looked taken aback.

“I told you after the Hogsmeade attack that he wasn’t the spy, and nothing had happened between us then,” Harry snapped, and even Ron quieted at the tone in his voice. “You know me, Ron. And he’s different, okay? I can’t explain how, but I know it. He wasn’t even at Hogsmeade when the attack happened, he couldn’t have had anything to do with it, and he was really upset about Snape, it was like losing his father all over again—"

“Right,” Ron said, “because I’ll bet you’re going to tell me Lucius Malfoy’s the newest Order of the Phoenix member, is that right?”

“Look, I’d put his dad in Azkaban again in an instant and he knows it!”

“But now he doesn’t insult your mum and dad or laugh about Sirius or call Hermione a Mudblood—sorry, Hermione—anymore?” Ron demanded. “Is that what you’re saying? Because I’m pretty sure he tripped me last week and laughed when my robes ripped and called me a poverty-stricken weasel who goes at it with his sister—sorry, Ginny—for a good time, and that’s not really Malfoy being any different from the rotten little shit he always is, is it?”

“I didn’t know that,” Harry muttered, a wave of guilt overtaking him. By now, Ginny was staring at him in reproach, and even Hermione looked disappointed.

“Well, now you do,” Ron said loudly. “So you can go off and snog Malfoy all you want, but don’t say nobody warned you when he drags you off to visit Daddy in Wales!” He shoved back his chair and it toppled with a clatter.

“Ron,“ Hermione pleaded.

“No, you know what, Hermione? I don’t care about the sodding spy at Hogwarts. I’m going to bed.”

And without looking at Harry, Ron stormed up the stairs. Harry felt as if his stomach had just been ripped out.

“It’s not because you’re gay,” Hermione said in a small voice, after several awkward moments had passed in silence. “Ron wouldn’t care about that, it’s only that it’s Malfoy.”

Ginny nodded and gave Harry a guilty look. “I’m sorry I brought it up, Harry. I didn’t know you were going to say that, honestly. But,” and she frowned at him; she’d been particularly affected by Malfoy’s insult concerning her and Ron, “maybe you should think about what Ron said.”

“I am!” Harry snapped. “Don’t you think I’ve thought the same things? Don’t you think I fought with myself for months? And I’m not talking to Draco right now anyway. We had a fight.”

“Over what?” Hermione asked, and though she didn’t sound smug at all, Harry resented her for it.

“Over his father, what do you think?” Harry muttered, annoyed. “I don’t want to talk about it. It’s late, anyway, and I’ve got to read for Transfiguration.”

Hermione gave him a long look, but he busied himself with turning pages and finally, she and Ginny said, “Good night, Harry,” and walked away towards the stairs. He felt like collapsing.

_While last chapter we briefly covered methods of full body disguise and in Chapter Seven learned about minor and cosmetic alterations, this chapter we will address the complicated matter of full body Transfiguration . . . several methods known to wizardkind, among them the Polyjuice Potion and simple costume charms, but true Transfiguration is left to the most powerful wizards or Metamorphmagi . . . however, even for those who can change appearance at will, to assume an entire identity consumes a great deal of concentration . . ._

Harry shut his book with a loud bang and stared down at the cover without seeing it. He wasn’t in the mood for Transfiguration, especially for reading about Metamorphmagi. If Ron had been there, he would have laughed, “How do you recognize a Metamorphmagus? That’s easy: her name is Tonks.”

But Ron wasn’t there. Ron was probably in bed, fuming over Malfoy. He probably felt betrayed. As if Harry had chosen the enemy on purpose. As if he’d had a choice.

His mind still on Tonks thanks to the Transfiguration text, Harry thought bitterly that Ron would have been whooping with excitement when Harry told him about Tonks. Only now that it was Draco, he was furious. He was incensed at the idea, convinced that Harry was making the mistake of his life.

But was he right?

Ron still wasn’t talking to Harry when Defense class ended on Monday; he’d partnered with Hermione, leaving Harry to pair up with Anthony Goldstein, who gave them a sidelong look and nodded at Harry. He spent the rest of class, which didn’t involve wand work, staring doggedly at Ron and Draco, but both refused to look at him. As class ended, Hermione gave him a wide-eyed, sorry glance as she followed Ron out the door.

“In a spat with Ron, are you?” Tonks said from behind him, leaning on her desk. “What’s the matter now?”

Harry frowned and stopped by the door. “Nothing. We just had an argument, it’s stupid. Stuff about Dr—Malfoy.”

“Oh,” Tonks said. “Speaking of Malfoy, what were you doing with him the other day?”

“We were just. Arguing.” Technically, it was true. “After Quidditch.”

Tonks chuckled. “Oh, there was a match! Heard the shouting from my carriage. I thought so. Shame I missed it.”

“It’s going to be rescheduled for the weather,” Harry shrugged.

“Oh, good.” Tonks gave him a long look, then, and lowered her voice. “Harry,” she said conspiratorially, “I’d watch out for Malfoy if I were you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you know who his father is, Harry. And Narcissa Malfoy is nobody to brush off. She’s a Black at heart, and I don’t mean like Sirius, either. Malfoy comes from a dangerous family. You can’t trust what he says. If he tells you anything, I wouldn’t believe him.”

“He is his own person,” Harry said hotly. He couldn’t believe this was the second time he had to defend Draco in less than twenty four hours.

Tonks grimaced. “I’m just saying, the apple doesn’t fall so far from the tree, you know what I mean? We haven’t got any evidence that he’s been communicating with his father, but it’s possible his mother could be passing on information—"

“I thought you said he didn’t tell you anything when you interrogated him under Veritaserum!”

“Ignorance doesn’t mean he’s harmless,” Tonks answered. “And anyway, that was months ago.”

Harry said desperately, “But Remus knows, he met him over the holidays, he showed him pictures of Sirius and my dad. Remus—"

“Thinks he needs some watching,” Tonks intercepted smoothly. “Which is why Remus is sticking around the school for the rest of term, just to keep an eye on things. Just in case.”

Harry thought, for the briefest of instants, that maybe Remus was staying because he was the spy. Then he shook it off. How dare he accuse Remus, _Remus_ , of spying for Voldemort? All this hypothesizing was making him paranoid.

“Look,” he said, uncomfortable, “I’ve got to get to Potions.”

“Think about it, Harry!” Tonks called after him. “He can’t be trusted! If anybody’s up to something, it’s Malfoy!”

Harry left, but her words rang after him, so much so that he had to stop outside the Potions classroom and take a deep breath. Two warnings in two days. Didn’t that mean something?

 _Yeah, it means you’re starting to think like bloody Trelawney_ , Harry thought.

It made him miss Ron.

He was predictably late to Potions and Professor Kothari gave him a disappointed look and took five points from Gryffindor, but Lisa gave him a smile when he slid into his seat, and that bolstered him a little. Although the way things were going, the next thing he knew, she’d probably be warning him about Draco.

Draco. Who was sitting just to the right and a little behind Harry, and who sneered deliberately at his notes when Harry twisted to look at him.

 _Please_ , Harry sent frantically at him. _Look at me. I can’t have blind faith in you. Not after what you said. Look at me._

But Draco didn’t look up.

“I was thinking,” Hermione said, catching him by the elbow when class was over, “maybe you could try talking to Ron tonight, what do you think? If you just tell him rationally—Harry?“

But Harry wasn’t paying her any attention, as Draco had just shouldered by him and was making his way out the door. Harry seized his bag and said hurriedly, “I’ve got to go, Hermione,” before racing after him.

“ _Harry_ ,” he thought he heard Hermione say with exasperation, but he didn’t have time to turn back.

“Malfoy!” Harry shouted down the cold stone hall, and the other boy’s steps slowed on his way towards Slytherin. He turned around.

“I thought I told you to leave me alone, Potter,” he snapped.

Harry took a few steps forward. “Actually, you told me to get out of your sight, which I did,” he retorted. “I don’t recall you saying anything about leaving you alone.”

“I’m telling you now, then!” Draco spun around, looking as if he were about to stalk away.

“Wait,” Harry said desperately.

Draco stopped, his back still towards Harry. Finally, he turned, eyeing Harry with disdain.

“I just wanted to—look, what I said on Saturday,” Harry said in a hurry. “That’s not what I meant, I didn’t mean I would enjoy putting him in Azkaban again, just—if I’d have to—Draco, he tried to kill me—“

“Well, it’s a shame he didn’t succeed!” Draco snarled, such ferocity in his voice that Harry almost recoiled. “I hope next time it’s Granger! I hope my father has to use a thousand Scouring Charms to wash off all her dirty, disgusting blood! I hope Weasley has to watch her die!”

Harry stared at him for one long, disbelieving second. Then he seized Draco by the robes and slammed him bodily against the wall. Draco whimpered when his head cracked the stone.

“I stood up for you,” Harry hissed, barely recognizing his own voice. “I said you were better than your father, I said you were worth my time, I said you didn’t mean it—"

“Who did you think I was?” Draco shouted at him. He was speaking so furiously that Harry could feel flecks of spit flying from his mouth. “What did you tell the Mudblood, Potter, that I was misunderstood? That she just didn’t know me? I’m not your pet Slytherin, Potter, you have no idea who I am—"

“You want to know who you are?” Harry leaned in close to him, his whisper so furious that the muscles in his throat ached. “You’re _nothing_. You’re nobody. You don’t deserve my fucking touch, Malfoy. You don’t even deserve me looking at you.”

“Funny,” Draco choked out, though his face had gone white. “I seem to remember you being the one who followed me.”

“I won’t make that mistake again,” Harry seethed.

“Then get your filthy hands off me,” Draco snapped. “Get off me and go running back to Gryffindor where you belong, Potter! That’s how it always is with you!”

“What d’you mean, that’s how it always is?” Harry leaned in closer to him, one hand still fisted in the collar of his robes. Draco pressed back further against the wall, his glare baleful.

“Starting things you can’t finish,” he said furiously. “Walking into things you know nothing about—"

“I think you’re the one messing around with things you don’t know anything about,” Harry retorted, his tone dangerous. “Be careful what you say, Malfoy, or you could end up just like your dad—or worse—I’d kill him if I got the chance—"

“Shows how much you know,” Draco spat. “You think you’re such a hero, Potter, you think you’ve got everybody pegged, don’t you? You and your fucking simple answers—"

“I do have you pegged!” Harry yelled. “You’re nothing but a worthless little toady, you think everybody cares about you but you’re nothing, even your dad couldn’t come back for you—"

“MY FATHER LOVES ME,” Draco shouted, face contorted with rage. Harry shook him furiously and shoved away from him; Draco sagged against the wall with his fists clenched, looking very much as if he couldn’t stand on his own. "You don't know anything about it, Potter! You've got no idea what's going on!"

“Neither do you,” Harry retorted, “nobody tells you anything, bet that really gets you angry, Malfoy, that even Voldemort’s written you off! I should have known better than to try and be your friend, I should have known—when your dad killed all those people, I should’ve—"

“You started that!” Draco snarled, clearly remembering their eerily similar encounter by the Potions classroom as well as Harry did. “There you go again, one minute you’re all smiles, the next you’re shoving your wand in my face—"

“You punched me!” Harry roared. “Did you write to your dad about that one, Malfoy? Real proud of getting in a hit for the first time in six years?”

“YOU ATTACKED ME LAST YEAR,” Draco shouted back, shoving forward with his fists at his sides, fury screwing up his features. “NOW WE’RE EVEN, POTTER. ISN’T THAT WHAT IT’S ABOUT? ISN’T THAT WHAT IT’S ALWAYS BEEN ABOUT, GETTING EVEN?”

Harry looked at him for one, long moment. Then he snapped, “We’ll never be even, Malfoy. I am always, always going to be better than you.”

Something seemed to snap in Draco; in one fluid motion, he’d yanked his wand from his pocket, and was advancing on Harry; he spat out, almost incoherently, “I hate you, Potter, I hate you, I hope the Mudblood suffers like your parents suffered, I hope they screamed, I hope you were covered in your mum’s dirty blood when they found you—"

Furious loathing flooded through Harry like he’d never known it; he was filled with revulsion for the words spilling from Draco’s mouth, but he reviled himself, too, for having ever wanted him, for having kissed that mouth, for having ever thought anything could change. He wanted him to know what he was saying, to know the crippling anguish coursing through Harry; he wanted him to stop, he wanted it all to stop, he wanted . . .

Sick with horror and hatred, he pointed his wand straight at Draco and said, without thinking, “ _Crucio_!”

Draco screamed, then, dropping to his knees, and contorted so awfully that Harry was afraid his limbs were going to wrench apart; his face was twisted up in pain and, even after Harry stopped the spell, he curled around himself, what appeared to be tears squeezing out of his eyes, which were still clenched shut. He looked like a child, lying there, unmoving.

Harry thought he was going to vomit.

“Malfoy,” he said, terrified. “Malfoy, Draco, look at me. Are you all right? Are you—"

Draco stared up at him, something cold and strange shining in his eyes. He said, very distantly, “My father . . . my father will hear about this . . .”

Sparked by fear into anger, Harry snapped, “That’s a real plan, Malfoy, go on and tell your fugitive dad about how Harry Potter cursed you, I bet he’ll be real proud of you then."

“Don't you ever talk about my father again!"” Draco shouted, immediately on his feet. He looked even paler, but he was trembling with fury, and that only urged Harry on. The less he had to think about what he had just done, the better.

“You can’t stop me,” Harry snarled. “I’ll bet he’s forgotten about you already, bet he thinks you’re just a pathetic little crybaby—"

“You shut your mouth,” Draco hissed. He was white with anger, though his cheeks were pink, and his eyes held something dangerous that Harry had never dared acknowledge; he was standing there, glowering, and for the first time in weeks, Harry thought he saw him exactly as he was. A prickle of the familiar loathing began behind his eyes, and it almost relieved him.

“Oh yeah?” Harry demanded. “And what would your precious father say if he knew about what happened between us, Malfoy?”

Compared to Harry, Draco’s tone turned abruptly level and cold. It was a shock, after they’d been screaming, and yet it sounded loud in the suddenly silent hallway. He said, somehow furiously calm, “I wouldn’t exist to him, Potter. He wouldn’t be my father any longer.”

For an instant, Harry was caught off guard. And before he could recover, Draco said icily, “Now leave me alone,” and he stalked off down the hall without a backward glance, something in his stride looking unexplainably broken.

Harry could have stopped him. But he didn’t.

It was late Wednesday evening when Harry trudged through the portrait hole, too tired to even smile as the Fat Lady let him through. It had been an awful few days, between Ron ignoring him and his final fight with Draco, and every time he thought of it, he was torn between fury at himself and the guilt that Ron had, perhaps, been right. All of this reflected on his abilities at Occlumency with Dumbledore, who had given him a handful of lemon drops, smiled down his nose at Harry, and finally just dismissed him.

By the time Harry got back to Gryffindor Tower, having spent the last hour stalking furiously around the lake in the blowing cold, he was shivering, wet, and exhausted. The Gryffindor common room was dim and appeared abandoned, though when Harry entered, a tall figure stood up by the dying fire.

Harry said, shocked, “Ron?”

Ron looked at him, his hands stuck in the pockets of his robes. In the dim light of the common room, Harry couldn’t make out the expression on Ron’s face. After a moment, Ron said carefully, “You were out with him, weren’t you?”

For an instant, Harry was truly bewildered, and then he shook his head. “Occlumency. With Dumbledore.”

“It’s past curfew,” Ron frowned. “You never have Occlumency later than seven.”

“Look, I went for a walk,” Harry snapped. “First you don’t talk to me, and now you have to know everywhere I’ve been?”

Ron didn’t seem to hear him, or rather, didn’t seem to want to respond. He said instead, “Walking with Malfoy?”

“No, I wasn’t with Malfoy!” Harry said loudly. “And I haven’t been, all right? Are you happy now?”

“I’m not happy if you’re miserable,” Ron muttered. “Look, I just wanted to say that, er, Hermione’s right, and you’ve got to see something in him that nobody else does, or he wouldn’t be worth your time. And that, er, I’d rather be your friend and know you’re shagging Malfoy than, er, not be your friend and know that you’re shagging Malfoy. That’s all.”

Harry felt something tighten in his throat and he had the sudden, strange urge to fling his arms around Ron. Instead, he flopped into a chair by the fire.

“I’m not,” he said dully. “And I don’t see anything in him.”

Ron sat down next to him. He looked bewildered. “What d’you mean? Didn’t you say—but I thought—" For an instant, Ron’s expression was horrified, as if he’d made a terrible mistake. “You mean to say you and Malfoy never—"

“No, we did,” Harry said. “And now we don’t. Okay?”

“Well—I—but—" Ron stammered. He seemed overwhelmed by this new information. “You didn’t—because of me?”

Harry ran a hand over his face, feeling exhausted. Something still twisted painfully in his stomach, some aching reminder of his stupidity, but just hearing Ron’s voice directed at him made a lump rise in his throat. He wondered if it were possible to express how much he’d missed Ron without sounding like a girl.

“Because of him,” Harry shrugged, his voice still emotionless, “but you were right, Ron. I don’t know what I was doing. It was stupid.”

Ron was speechless. “What happened?” he finally asked.

“We got in an argument,” Harry said flatly. “He said some horrible things about you and Hermione. And I told him that he was nothing to me. And then I cast Crucio on him.”

The silence in the common room was deafening. Harry realized, after a moment, that this was Ron he was talking to, and not a Slytherin, who would have merely taken it in stride. He swallowed.

After a moment, in a rather small voice, Ron said, “You cast the Cruciatus Curse on Malfoy?”

“I—yeah.”

Ron said, still sounding strange, “Did it work?”

Harry looked at his hands. If possible, he felt even worse than he had when Ron had found out several nights ago. Now he felt as if he should be kicked out of Gryffindor for good. Perhaps the Sorting Hat had been right all along and he did belong in Slytherin. He felt like he was a Slytherin, from the way Ron was staring at him in shock. “Yeah,” he said quietly, unable to meet Ron’s eyes.

After a moment, Ron said, “Oh.”

Silence ruled until finally, his shame turning slowly into frustration, Harry snapped, “Months ago you would’ve been talking about it for days. You would’ve thought it was brilliant. You hate Malfoy.”

“But you don’t,” Ron said, with such unexpected conviction that Harry believed him for a moment. “Anyway, I wouldn’t’ve. Harry, it’s an Unforgivable!” 

“I’ve cast it before,” Harry said without thinking.

Ron stared.

“On Bellatrix,” Harry qualified, feeling ill at the way Ron looked at him. But he couldn’t stop now. “Last year at the Department of Mysteries. It didn’t last very long. But I’ve practiced a couple times since the Hogsmeade attack.”

“It’s against the law,” Ron said faintly.

“Yeah.”

Ron appeared to be thinking for a long minute. Then he said, tentatively, “Does it hurt, Harry? The curse?”

Harry felt sick. “Yeah. Yeah, Ron, it does.”

There was another pause. “Does Hermione know?”

“If she does, I didn’t tell her.”

“But you could get in so much trouble—"

“Or I could get killed by Voldemort!” Harry said fiercely. “It didn’t stop Bellatrix from using it on Neville because the Ministry said it wasn’t allowed, did it?”

Ron worried at his lip. “I know, but, Harry—it’s one thing to break Umbridge’s rules, but the Aurors don’t even use Unforgivable Curses—"

“This isn’t a game, Ron! I cast it on Bellatrix, but it didn’t work very well. She said I really had to mean it. Well, if I would have known how to cast it, maybe she wouldn’t be loose now! Maybe she wouldn’t kill anybody like Sirius or hurt anyone’s parents anymore. Maybe Lucius Malfoy wouldn’t have got free in Wales. Maybe Voldemort wouldn’t be so strong.”

Still looking hesitant, Ron muttered, “But you’ve fought him before without using any Unforgivable Curses, and you’ve done all right.”

“I’ve done all right, have I?” Harry challenged. “How about Cedric, then? Sirius? Seamus? Are they all right?” Before Ron could open his mouth, Harry plowed on, “Who’s next, your mum and dad? Charlie? Ginny? Maybe Hermione, what about her—"

“I get it,” Ron snapped. “I get it, okay?”

Harry felt suddenly drained. He couldn’t tell if they were still arguing or not. He looked into the dying fire, its embers barely glowing. “Okay,” he said.

Quietly, Ron asked, “Did Malfoy scream?”

Again, Harry felt sick. The image of Draco, contorting on the floor, came unwanted into his head. He shut his eyes. “Yeah, he did.”

Ron said nothing. Rather than triumphant, he looked ill, too. He glanced towards the fire, then back. Harry was afraid to meet his eyes, afraid what he would see there, but in the shadows between them, all he saw was Ron, smiling ruefully at him. “You’re my best mate, Harry,” he said, after a minute. “And you’re braver than anybody I know. And if you tell me Malfoy’s not half bad, I’ll try to believe you. Or if you say you’ve got to know how to use the Cruciatus Curse. I’ll believe you then, too.”

“Ron,” Harry said, and his throat tightened around the word, he couldn’t say any more. He hoped Ron got the message. After swallowing several times, he said, “But it doesn’t matter, Malfoy’s the same he’s always been. You were right.”

Ron looked across at him in the dark. “Sorry, Harry.”

Harry knew the feeling. But sorry for what? For trusting Draco in the first place? For letting himself believe there could be something more there? For giving him a chance? For letting Ron down? For shattering his illusions about the war, about Harry himself?

For all of it, maybe. For Harry, for how empty he felt, despite it all.

“Me, too,” he said.

It was at least another week before Harry could get away to practice Defense on his own. Hermione and Ron seemed so concerned about his anger or betrayal after Draco that they aimed to keep him constantly occupied, and it was either Ron suggesting they go for a fly or Hermione conning him into studying Herbology with her and Neville. On top of the DA with Tonks and Remus, Occlumency with Dumbledore, preparation for the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match in February, and the amount of homework they were getting, he hardly had a minute to think.

Which was better, really: he already remembered the press of Draco’s lips just before he fell asleep, and he still wanked over the way Draco sank to his knees and took Harry in his mouth. Sometimes he remembered the way Draco had looked, broken, on the dungeon floor. The curve of his smile. Sometimes he doubted himself.

And he missed him, despite the fury that still flared when he thought of the things Draco had said to him, how Harry had trusted him. He missed the particular way Draco had of talking, the snide way he had of laughing. He missed kissing him. He missed practicing Defense with him and seeing the particular light of triumph in Draco’s eyes when he managed to hex Harry.

He wondered now if it had just been the triumph of accomplishment, or something more sinister altogether.

January was winding down when he finally escaped to the Room of Requirement on a Friday evening, giving Ron and Hermione time to themselves. Yet once he got there, he didn’t feel like doing much of anything; even the lengthy essay Professor Kothari had assigned them on healing potions could not motivate him. It was a relief to finally be alone. He sat by the window instead, gazing out at the dimming sky, as his thoughts drifted . . . Colin had accosted him at dinner and poured out so many childhood stories about Dennis that he’d let his food get cold . . . Hermione was going spare about her Apparation test and would not stop dispensing random facts about Apparation accidents that she’d found doing unnecessary research . . . it had been less than three weeks since he had been here, in this very room, with Draco . . .

Behind him, the door clicked open. Before Harry could even turn around, a too-familiar voice said, “Expecting someone, Potter?”

“Malfoy,” he said, something in him turning hollow and cold. “What are you doing here?”

Draco let the door fall shut and leaned against it. “Looking for you, naturally.”

Harry stared at him. He could hear the echoes of Draco’s sneering taunts, the way he had shouted, “I hope next time it’s Granger!” He knew, in the back of his mind, that Draco was still a horrible, hateful little bigot who thought nothing of using other people, and the knowledge had frozen him, it was impossible to ignore. Yet here, staring at Draco standing so simply before him, he could almost feel his resolve melting away.

“What?” Harry snapped.

“I was looking for you,” Draco said again, impatiently. “Look—"

He steeled himself and said with enough disdain to rivaled Snape’s old rancor for Harry, “If you haven’t come to apologize, Malfoy, you might as well leave now and save me the bother of hexing you. I don’t want anything to do with you. You make me sick.”

Draco stared at him with unexpected surprise. After a moment passed, when Draco hadn’t spoken, Harry said tiredly, “Fine, Malfoy. _I’ll_ leave.” He seized his bag and made to shoulder past him.

“Wait,” Draco exclaimed, and it was so unlike him that Harry spun to face him. Draco’s features quickly twisted into a sneer, but he pushed on, “I was upset, Potter, and I didn’t mean whatever it was that—"

“You didn’t?” Harry hissed, stepping deliberately nearer. Draco backed up against the door. “You didn’t mean it when you said you hoped Hermione would bleed all over your dad when he killed her? Or when you hoped my mum suffered before she died? Or maybe you didn’t mean it when you said your dad loved you, was that it? If you’re here to admit your dad’s a scumbag who’s after a bunch of innocent people—"

“Potter,” Draco said, sounding furious and desperate all at once, and without warning, he seized Harry by the robes, wrenched him forward, and kissed him.

Caught entirely off guard, Harry found himself kissing back.

It was angry, frantic, Draco’s grip nearly strangling Harry, Harry’s hand flying up to seize his arm hard enough to bruise. And he’d missed this, this heat, this slick union of tongues and lips, Draco’s hand solid against his back. He’d missed Draco—

Draco seemed as shocked as Harry was when Harry broke away. “Oh god,” Harry said, raggedly, “look, I can’t.”

“Can’t what?” Draco looked at him strangely. “If you have a problem with kissing—"

“I have a problem with _you_ ,” Harry said, turning and pacing towards the bookshelves. “I’m supposed to forgive you just like that? Forget the things you said? How am I supposed to trust you if you still say things like that you want Hermione to die, what am I supposed to think?”

“I could care less about Granger,” Draco said impatiently. “Potter, come here.”

“Well, I _do_ care about Hermione,” Harry snarled. “You can’t just come marching in here like that and expect it all to go away, Malfoy! Nothing’s changed! I’d put your dad in Azkaban if I could! I want you to know that, I hope they catch him, it’s what he deserves!”

“Don’t talk about my father—"

“Why shouldn’t I?” Harry said insolently. “He tried to kill me, I can say whatever I want.”

“Potter,” Draco said. He said it so simply and insistently that Harry stared at him, still half-leaned up against the door, eyes pale and unreadable, frowning. In that moment, standing strangely still and somehow open, he looked so much like Draco that Harry couldn’t imagine him killing anyone. He swallowed and took a hesitant step back towards him.

“Potter,” Draco said again, sounding frustrated, “look, I just came to give you this, all right?”

And he held out his hand.

Harry frowned. He said, challengingly, “I don’t take charity, Malfoy.”

For an instant, Draco looked perplexed, and then he said, “It’s not, it’s a present.”

Curiosity getting the better of him, Harry stepped forward and demanded irritably, “Well, what is it, then?”

They were dizzyingly close for a painful second, and Draco’s knuckles brushed Harry’s palm before Harry stepped back. It was another tiny dragon, heavy and warm in his hand, nearly identical to the first one. He closed his fingers around it instinctually, mind racing. What was Draco playing at? What was this supposed to mean? And if he was trying to send some sort of message, what was it?

Harry turned it over in his fingers, frowning. “I thought you—" Harry began, when he looked up at Draco and saw him smiling strangely, almost sadly. Harry said, confused, “What is it?”

And then he felt a familiar, aching tugging around his navel, as if someone had wrapped a hook around his insides and yanked, and the world blurred around him.


	8. Chapter 8

A rush of color. Wind stinging his face. Flying forward, forward . . .

Harry landed with a loud crash, his knees buckling as he pitched forward on a cold stone floor. His thoughts were racing. Draco had sent him somewhere, and it couldn’t be good. He was stranded in the dark, the frigid stone a cold shock against his knees.

Which was when Harry heard the laughter. He looked up, heart seizing.

“Well, if it isn’t Harry Potter come a-calling,” Bellatrix Lestrange drawled, a smile like the Cheshire cat spreading on her face. She was sitting in a low armchair, legs crossed, holding her wand idly. “Stand up like a proper guest, Potter. Unless you’d prefer to grovel as you are.”

Harry leapt to his feet, his wand already in his hand. Could he be in Wales? Was anyone else around? His scar was not bursting with pain, which meant Voldemort couldn’t be near . . .

“I’d have brought you to the Black mansion,” Bellatrix said sweetly, “but you’ve been there already, and it’s rather infested at the moment. Some bothersome werewolf has set up residence and it’d be such trouble to waste time killing him.”

“Remus,” Harry choked out. “Don’t you _dare_ —"

“A pity your godfather never showed you a proper Black welcome,” Bellatrix smiled. “Though it’s too late now. And I’d have welcomed you at the Lestrange home, but it seems to have been confiscated by the Ministry. My sister’s humble manor will have to do.”

Her sister. Harry whirled, but Narcissa Malfoy was nowhere in sight. He did, however, catch a glimpse of the door.

“Do for what?” he demanded, stalling.

“For your death, of course,” Bellatrix said, leaning forward and giving him a long, appraising look. “Don’t think we’ve forgotten your little adventures last June.”

“Why Malfoy Manor?” Harry rasped, as Bellatrix unwound herself sinuously and stood up. “Why couldn’t you do it at Hogwarts?”

“I’m afraid the old fool Dumbledore has quite the security system,” Bellatrix snarled. “And besides, Harry. I believe you and I have some unfinished business to tend to. I couldn’t very well let someone else steal you away from me, now could I?”

“Unfinished business?” Harry hissed. “Like the fact that you killed Sirius?”

“Like the fact that I’m about to kill you,” Bellatrix corrected him, an ugly smile on her face. “And then I’m going to kill your pretty little friends. The little redheaded girl first, I think . . . I’ll have her squealing by the time I’m through with her . . .”

“ _Stupefy_!” Harry roared, but she dodged the curse and it hit the wall, shattering flecks of stone into the room with a loud ringing sound. Bellatrix let out a raucous laugh.

“Baby Potter wants to play,” she mocked, carefully stepping over a chunk of stone before raising her wand to chest height. “Think you can get the best of me, wittle baby Potter? I’ll show you what Crucio really feels like—"

But Harry narrowly dodged the curse and shouted, “ _Impedimenta_ ,” sending Bellatrix flying backwards into the chair she had been sitting in. Before she could recover, he started to cast a Silencing Spell, but she was quicker than he realized. Bounding to her feet, she threw another Cruciatus Curse at him, which knocked him to his knees. Even with the pain of it shattering through him, he could hear her maniacal laughter.

“Feel that, Potter?” she screeched. “You can watch your little friends take that much pain twenty times over! I’ll torture them until they’ll scream! Oh no, Potter, no easy death for you—you’ll watch them die, you’ll hear their screams for days and days—"

“ _Silencio_!” Harry yelled, and Bellatrix’s eyes bulged as she tried to speak and couldn’t. She looked insane, eyes bloodshot and wide, her expression livid, and it was a terrifying sight as she leapt at him, hands outstretched for his throat. He shouted, hoarse, “ _Stupefy! STUPEFY!_ ”

She landed, twisted, half on top of a low table, one pale arm twisted behind her back; her face looked almost regal in repose, but Harry had no time to contemplate it, as his first thought was escape.

He ran for the door, hearing what might have been Bellatrix stirring already behind him, but there was no time now. He raced out of the room, the door ricocheting wildly on its hinges, and pelted down the hall. Where could he go? Where was the exit in this cold, terrifying manor?

It seemed as if he were in a dungeon of some kind, and he threw himself up the first staircase he saw, a cold stone one that was more slippery than it appeared. But just as he had scrambled to the middle of it, it rumbled loudly and began to swivel in the opposite direction. Harry groaned. He was all too familiar with staircases that changed directions mid-ascension, but this was not a matter of being late to Charms. As soon as it locked into place in its new location, he ran desperately up it, determined to reach the next level before it decided to relocate again.

At the top of the stairs, a life size statue waited, and his head swiveled slowly to look at Harry as he ran past. On the wall, several dim figures fled from portrait to portrait to watch him, most of them as pale and blonde as Draco. His feet were pounding on ringing tile and he grasped the doorknob of the first door he saw, though it twisted wildly in his grasp and bit him. He seized it again and wrenched the door open.

He was in a long, empty room walled with windows; the only furniture in the room was a shining piano that looked as if it had seen better days, and several high-backed gold chairs lined up beside the door. On one of them stood an empty, dusty wineglass, as if it had been forgotten when its owner was distracted.

It was of no use to Harry, unless he could leap out the windows. He retreated from the room and dashed to the next, which was full of mirrors. Thousands of panting, wide-eyed Harrys stared back at him, all of their expressions desperately demanding, _Where to go? Where now?_ He slammed the door and ran for the last one on the right side of the hallway, just as he thought he heard Bellatrix’s mad laugh somewhere behind him. The door had monstrous faces carved into its surface and they bared their teeth at him as he shoved it open, but let him inside. Once he was in, he immediately bolted the door behind him.

He had entered a study: Lucius Malfoy’s, it appeared, judging from the sneering portrait hanging directly above the fireplace. “Harry Potter, here?” Malfoy gasped and instantly vanished from his portrait, probably to alert the rest of the house. Harry paid him no mind, glancing around the large room at shelves of old books, several delicate metal instruments Harry had seen in Dumbledore’s office, a Pensieve tucked out of the way on a shelf. Much as Harry would have liked to seize it and take it to the Ministry, he figured the Ministry had already been there to look at it, and besides, he needed to escape. Where . . .?

The fireplace. Desperately casting around the room, Harry leapt for it. He had to think quickly. Where could he go? Not Hogwarts. That would only put Hogwarts in danger, and for all he knew, it could be under a full-scale attack. Where, then?

 _Somewhere safe_ , he thought desperately. _Not Hogwarts, not even to get Dumbledore, where else? Somewhere safe . . ._

The word niggled at him through his frantically scrambling thoughts, something familiar, something he remembered . . . He couldn’t go to Grimmauld Place; he would bet Bellatrix knew it inside and out. And the Ministry was out of the question. Perhaps he should go to Dumbledore, after all . . .

No. He knew where he had to go.

Seizing the Floo powder, he knocked it to the floor in his haste—someone was rattling the door—tossing the biggest handful he could grasp into the fire, Harry’s lungs seized up as he accidentally inhaled a mouthful of the dust, but there was no time to spare—outside, he heard a shouted _Alohomora_ and the door burst from its hinges—

Green flame roared and, coughing on the powder, Harry dove headfirst without a backwards look. Over Bellatrix’s screams, he yelled out, “Arabella Figg’s house!”

It was a whirl of soot and darkness and rushing in his ears, and then Harry scrambled into a cold, empty room, tripping over a cat that yowled and skittered out of his way. He realized, belatedly, that Mrs. Figg was a Squib and could do nothing to protect herself if Bellatrix followed him. The Death Eaters would kill her without a thought. But it was too late now. Perhaps she was asleep.

There was nothing else for it, and with one look behind him at the fireplace, Harry ran for the door, scattering cats in his path. He wrenched it open and tore across the lawn. The cold night was a blessing as he sprinted to the house, panting and wheezing. His left ankle throbbed as if he’d twisted it, and his lungs burned, whether from the Floo powder or his frantic flight, he didn’t know.

“AUNT PETUNIA,” he screamed, breaking the pristine silence of Privet Drive. Across the street, a light went on. Harry hammered at the door. “UNCLE VERNON! You’ve got to let me in—please, you’ve got to—remember Dumbledore’s warning—"

Harry continued to pound at the door until the house lit up, but the man who answered the door was far from Uncle Vernon. He was a short, balding man in pyjamas, who was clutching his overcoat like it was a weapon.

“Here now, what’s this?” he said, puzzled, with the amiable confusion only a man who is still half asleep could muster for an unknown, panting boy clutching a polished stick. “Who’re you?”

“Where . . . Dursleys?” Harry wheezed.

“Can’t say as I know a Dursley,” the man said thoughtfully. He appeared so calm about the entire situation that Harry wondered if strange boys turned up on his doorstep every night. “Oh, wait now. The couple who owned the house, that’s right! Bit unpleasant, if I remember correctly, but quite eager to sell, I—"

“Moved?” Harry gasped out, glancing over his shoulder desperately. Any minute now, someone would come. “But . . . why? Where to?”

“America, I think,” the man mused. And then, with the sudden realization he was speaking to a panting, wild-eyed boy, he added with concern, “Say, do you need to call someone? Have a lie down? I’d—"

“It’s all right,” Harry said, on the verge of panic, “thanks.”

“Some tea?” he continued to offer. “Are you bleeding? I’m sure I could find their address, if you need to contact them—Vernon Dursley, wasn’t it, bit of a large man—"

“No,” Harry panted, “no thanks—"

And just then, with a loud crack, Bellatrix Apparated onto the street. “Potter!” she shrieked, pelting down Privet Drive towards him, wand extended before her.

“GET INSIDE,” Harry yelled to the man who had bought the Dursleys’ home. He looked more curious than terrified, but Harry shoved him backwards so forcefully that he toppled over the doorstep and stared at Harry as if shocked at such a display of violence. But Harry had no time for niceties, as Bellatrix was racing towards him, and as he held out his wand, more windows flared with light—

“You can get away with that once, Potter!” Bellatrix screamed at him. “But I’ll have you! _Crucio_!”

Harry shouted desperately, “ _Protego_!” but Bellatrix’s spell shattered right through his shield charm and he was knocked back against the door of Number Four, Privet Drive, his entire body screaming with pain—somewhere, faintly, he heard somebody yelling and realized it was him—

“Had enough, baby Potter?” Bellatrix yelled, crouching behind the low garden wall, laughing madly. “You can’t best me—I know spells you can’t even dream of—spells that make your skin crawl off your flesh, make all your blood boil right out of you! Would you like that, Potter? It’s a pity my dear cousin died so easily, it would have been such fun to torture him—"

“ _Crucio_ ,” Harry bellowed, leaping forwards and throwing the spell at her as she peered above the wall at him—a few bricks exploded with the force of it, and Bellatrix was on the ground, writhing, her limbs jerking involuntarily—

Lights were going on all over Privet Drive, and across the street, some particularly loud neighbor shouted out the window, “It’s the middle of the bloody night, you hooligans! Go home!” But Harry had no time to pay attention to anything else, as Bellatrix was leaping to her feet, and before she could recover fully—

“ _STUPEFY_ ,” Harry screamed, feeling as if his whole body were pulled into the spell, so filled up with hatred was he, and a bolt of red light shot straight from his wand and hit Bellatrix squarely in the chest. She hit the ground so suddenly that the abrupt silence in Privet Drive was deafening.

Harry let out a heavy breath, feeling as if he’d just fought an army of Hippogriffs. He turned, wondering if he should bother the poor man in the Dursleys’ house, and stopped still.

Draco Malfoy was standing before him on the gravel driveway, wand extended, staring at him with cold fury in his eyes.

“Malfoy,” Harry said weakly. “I should have known.”

He felt something tidal breaking inside of him, as every warning that had been thrown at him over this mistake of a year came flooding back: _Malfoy’s dangerous. Malfoy could be planning something._ He remembered the words that had come out of his own mouth: _I don’t know if he’d hesitate to kill me if he had the chance._ He remembered Ron shouting at him: _But don’t say nobody warned you!_ And, irrationally, he remembered Draco drawing close to him, rubbing his thumb across Harry’s lip, saying softly, “Lupin’s waiting.”

There had been something gentle in his voice, Harry had thought then.

Standing there, facing down Draco, both their wands held chest-height and their gazes locking, Harry felt torn between the utter pain of betrayal and his overwhelming fury at it.

He chose fury.

“You think you can best me?” he hissed, taking a step forward. “After all this time, do you think you can possibly be better than me? You’re nothing, Malfoy. You’ll never be anything. You’re pathetic—just like your dad—"

“Wait,” Draco might have said, but Harry was already yelling, “ _Stupefy_!” Draco barely managed to dodge the jet of light that shot towards him, and it struck the garden wall instead, in a spray of sparks.

“I practiced all those spells with you,” Harry snarled, still advancing. “Oh, I’ll bet you loved that. Is that what this was all about, Malfoy? Playing your twisted games? All of this—the Defense practices, the money, the—the sex—"

Draco opened his mouth, but Harry yelled, “ _Expelliarmus_!” Draco’s block was barely sufficient, though he managed to keep a hold of his wand.

“Harry—"

But Harry, who had tuned out whatever Draco was about to jeer at him, raised his wand while Draco was still mid-sentence and shouted out, his voice ragged, “ _Avada Kedavra_!”

Nothing happened.

Harry’s hand shook as Draco stared at him in equal shock. He hadn’t done it. He couldn’t. After everything, after all of it, Harry could not muster the will to kill him.

“ _Stupefy_ ,” a voice said calmly to Harry’s left. A jet of light shot over his shoulder and before him, Draco dropped like a stone.

Harry whirled around. Standing there was Remus, looking haggard and anxious, his wand extended. But Harry was not looking at him. At Remus’s side, arms folded belligerently, so achingly familiar, was . . . Draco? Harry stared at him, stunned.

“Lord, Potter,” Draco said, sounding exhausted and very much annoyed, “must you be so thick?”

It was past midnight when Remus Flooed with Harry back to Hogwarts and, after forcing him to take a cup of tea and a half-melted bar of chocolate, led Harry into a small, dusty room on the second floor. “It’s been a long night, I know,” he sighed, one arm around Harry’s shoulders. “But here—everything will be explained, I think Albus must be here—"

Dumbledore was, indeed, in the room when they entered, talking in low tones with Moody. While Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled as he looked up at Harry, Moody glanced suspiciously towards the corner, where Draco sat. He was slumped in his chair and did not appear to be willing to look at anyone.

“Harry,” Dumbledore welcomed him, as if he were presiding over something as innocuous as a Hogwarts feast. “It appears you have had quite the evening. Remus, thank you for bringing him back safely. Now, Harry, why don’t you sit down—"

“I don’t want to sit down!” Harry snapped. “I thought we agreed that I wasn’t supposed to be treated like a child! I just want to know what’s going on!”

“Which is exactly what I intend to find out,” Moody said darkly, giving Draco a suspicious look. Somehow, it seemed he’d acquired several more scars on his already terrifying face, and it lent him an even more menacing air. “It appears that Nymphadora Tonks was less trustworthy than we had thought.”

Harry’s mind whirled. “Tonks?” he stuttered out. Tonks, who had befriended him; Tonks, who had told him, a strange look in her eyes, that her Muggleborn dad had been killed. Who’d said, so calmly, that her mother missed the House of Black sometimes, that she couldn’t bear to face the sisters she’d abandoned. “But she—she was part of the Order, she taught Defense—"

“She’s being held at the Ministry,” Remus interrupted, putting an awkward hand on Harry’s shoulder. “There will be a thorough investigation, of course. There is always the possibility of Imperius, and perhaps her relationship to the Black family was—"

But Harry, stunned, didn’t hear him. He was thinking of the first time since King’s Cross that he had seen Tonks . . . she had been sitting casually on his front stoop, her hair turned brown, as if she wanted to pass easily among Muggles . . .

“She killed Dudley, didn’t she,” he blurted. “She knew about Privet Drive. She was there herself, I showed her my room, I—"

“Steady on, Potter,” Moody said gruffly. His eye spun in a dizzying whirl of blue. “We’ll straighten it out soon enough. Kingsley’s at the Ministry now, he’s got a team covering the case.”

And Tonks had sought him out in the club. Why? She’d befriended him, she’d seduced him—he remembered, with a flash, the oily man she’d met in Hogsmeade—the way Draco had taunted that he thought he had everyone pegged—

“What about Malfoy?” he said, hating the way his voice shook.

“We know that the Draco Malfoy you faced on Privet Drive was really Tonks,” Remus said, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “And as for the real Draco, Moody thinks it best that we take precautions and question him under Veritaserum—"

Harry looked at Draco, who was slumped pale and weary in the shadows. He didn’t look up, and eventually, Harry looked away.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Moody rumbled. At his voice, Draco’s head flew up and he stared at Moody, glaring balefully as if he didn’t trust him. Moody continued without hesitation, “Potter, you’re here to give us your side of the story. Albus, have you got the potion?”

“Now hold on just a moment,” Remus interrupted. Moody’s good eye glanced towards him, while the other spun wildly. Even Draco glanced up, surprised, though he still eyed Moody as if Moody were about to attack at any time. Remus appeared to notice this, as he said evenly, “You already scare the boy, Alastor. You’ll remember that your impersonator had quite the year at Hogwarts. And we’ve all had a long night.”

“I hardly see what that has to do with questioning the boy,” Moody snapped.

“Perhaps you aren’t the best one to be doing the questioning,” Remus replied. Harry glanced at Dumbledore, who did not look surprised in the least, and was smiling at Remus. “I’d be quite willing to have a transcript made of everything spoken in the room, if you’d like—"

Moody looked taken aback. “Here now, Remus, surely—"

“Remus is right, old friend,” Dumbledore said smoothly, and Moody’s glass eye even stilled for a moment to stare at Dumbledore. “Perhaps you should attend to Nymphadora and leave these Hogwarts students to me. She is, after all, as an Auror, under your jurisdiction. And these boys are under mine.”

Glass eye whirling agitatedly, Moody glanced around at all of them for one long moment, and finally he stumped out of the room without a word. Remus squeezed Harry’s shoulder one last time and moved to shut the door.

“Dobby should be bringing some chocolate,” Remus said, looking kindly at both boys. “It’ll be just a moment. In the meantime, Harry, why don’t you tell us your version of what happened tonight?”

Harry did not particularly want to think about it, much less talk about it, but he leaned against the wall, exhausted, and said dully, “I was going to practice some Defense by myself. So I went to the Room of Requirement, but Draco—I thought it was Draco—he was there. And he apologized—we’d been fighting, see—and we.” Harry flushed, trying to look anywhere but at Dumbledore, whose twinkly blue eyes seemed to already know. “We, um, sort of made up. But I got angry, and we were arguing—"

He could feel Draco staring at him, almost in disbelief, and he stared pointedly at the floor. “Anyway, the important part isn’t until after that, when he gave me a Portkey. I didn’t know it was a Portkey, so I took it, and it took me to Malfoy Manor–“ here again Harry felt Draco’s eyes burning into him in shock— “where Bellatrix was. She tried to kill me and I Stunned her, long enough to get away, and I ran into some kind of study with a fireplace. I Flooed to Mrs. Figg’s house, but I think she heard me, and it didn’t matter anyway, the Dursleys had moved.”

Harry didn’t expect to feel any emotion at all as he said this, but a sudden sense of loneliness overwhelmed him. He had grown up knowing that the Dursleys didn’t love him and never would, and he loathed them in his own way, but they had left him without a word, left him for dead. Now he had no family, not even his horrible aunt and uncle . . .

“Harry,” Remus said gently. “Then what happened?”

“Then Bellatrix arrived and we fought and I Stunned her again,” Harry said flatly. “And then I saw Malfoy—Tonks—I don’t know, and I tried to kill him. Her. I, but I couldn’t, and then you came. That’s all.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Dumbledore said gravely. “And it seems—oh yes, here we are. Thank you, Dobby.”

Remus took the tray the house elf had brought and set it down on the table. Harry watched him without interest as he squeezed two drops of Veritaserum in one of the mugs and handed it to Draco, then offered another to Harry. Harry took it simply because he didn’t want to go through the effort of declining. He felt very tired, suddenly; trying to wrap his brain around all that had just happened was more of an effort than he had the energy for.

Taking a cup for himself, Remus said, “Albus?”

“I don’t mind if I do,” Dumbledore said pleasantly. He reached into his pocket and withdrew what appeared to be a Quick-Quotes Quill. “Ah, here it is . . . I believe Rita Skeeter introduced me to the use of these handy little things. With some exaggeration, perhaps, but Alastor will just have to accept it . . . Shall we proceed?”

“Certainly,” said Remus, as Dumbledore set the quill to parchment. “Now. Are you Draco Malfoy?”

“Naturally,” Draco said, sounding reluctant and irritable. He was still hunched in the chair, deliberately avoiding Harry’s gaze.

Remus gave him an encouraging smile as the room filled with the Quick-Quotes Quill’s furious scratching. “Well, I’m glad to hear it. Where were you after dinner tonight, Draco?”

“Studying Potions with Daphne Greengrass in the Slytherin Common Room.”

“You were nowhere near—where was it, Harry?”

“The Room of Requirement,” Harry muttered, trying not to look embarrassed. He pulled out a chair and sat down just to avoid looking at any of them.

“Not until later,” Draco said.

“But you didn’t see Harry at all?”

“Only when he was fighting in Little Whinging and you took me there.”

“Ah,” Remus said. He took a sip from his mug. “And how did you know Harry would be in trouble? You didn’t have, let’s say, any prior knowledge to what might be happening tonight?”

Draco was scowling. “I went to the Room of Requirement to look for him and saw his things but not him,” he explained brusquely. “I was worried so I came to tell you.”

“Why’d you come to the Room of Requirement?” Harry demanded, interrupting Remus’s questioning. “I thought you said you wanted nothing to do with me, Malfoy.”

“I wanted to see you, Potter,” Draco blurted, and immediately looked furious at the words that were coming out of his mouth. “I missed you and I was going to tell you that I hadn’t meant it and if you wouldn’t listen to me I was going to cast a Body-Bind Hex on you and kiss you.”

The look on Draco’s face at what he had just said was pure horror, and Remus had to take a swift sip to cover his growing smile. “To get back to what happened in Little Whinging,” Remus said, when he’d recovered. “Draco, you never cast an Unforgivable Curse on Harry Potter tonight?”

“No.”

Remus glanced across the room at Dumbledore. “I think we’ve established that you are not responsible for the acts that, under your appearance, someone else committed,” he said, to which Draco sneered. “Now, a few more. Did you have any idea that Tonks would try to pose as you?”

“I didn’t know that’s what she was going to do,” Draco snapped. At his wording, both Remus and Dumbledore straightened significantly, and Harry stared at him.

Remus’s voice was harder, now. “But you did know Tonks was up to something.”

“Yes.”

“Did she tell you this?”

“My mother told me. She sent me owls sometimes.”

“Your mother told you that Tonks was plotting against Harry.”

“Yes.”

“When? When did she first tell you this?”

Draco wasn’t looking at Harry. “She told me that Tonks was something of an ally before school began and she started owling me at the end of September.”

Remus was not smiling now. Harry felt as if his insides were crawling with one of Bellatrix’s horrible spells.

“Did you have anything to do with the attack on Hogsmeade?” Remus asked, very quietly.

“No.”

“Did you know about the attack on Hogsmeade?”

“Yes.”

“Did you—"

“You knew?” Harry shouted, interrupting Remus. His chair flew back as he leapt to his feet. “You fucking knew the whole time, you—" Suddenly, it dawned on him, and something clenched tight in his stomach. Dully, he said, “That’s why you apologized to me outside the Three Broomsticks. That’s why you demanded to practice Defense right away. Right?”

“Yes,” Draco said. His expression was impossible to read.

“You fucking bastard, you were trying to save me and not anybody else?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t know, Potter,” Draco said savagely, “I didn’t know what would happen, I thought they were just looking for you, my mum said Tonks was going to lure you there and that was all! And my mum would know right away if I’d informed, I was the only one who knew besides those involved, and I told the Slytherins not to go, I said—"

“You warned _them_ and left the rest of Hogwarts in danger?” Harry yelled.

“I DIDN’T KNOW,” Draco shouted again, his voice raw with fury. “Do you think I’m glad about it? Professor Snape died and that was my fault! I could have told him, I could have told anyone! And you wouldn’t shut your mouth about how sorry you were, how it was all your fault, how it was all up to you to save the world, you were blaming yourself left and right; well, Potter, now you know! It’s not your fault, it’s mine!“

Harry gritted his teeth. “Yeah,” he said coldly. “It is.”

“Harry.” Remus gave him a knowing look. “You’re here because we need to hear your side of the story too. Let me ask the questions, and—"

“This is my side of the story,” Harry snapped. “I’m the one he pulled out of Hogsmeade just before the attack. I’m the one who was fooled, all this time.”

“Tonks is—" Remus began, but Harry interrupted him again.

“No,” he said, voice bitter, “I know about Tonks. I meant by him.”

He didn’t look at Draco. He didn’t want to see his expression, whether it was wounded or expressionless. He didn’t want to care.

Remus squeezed his shoulder and said quietly to Draco, “What happened after the attack?”

“My mother was suspicious about Harry Potter missing the attack and cut most of our communications off,” Draco said sullenly. “Tonks was instructed to keep a closer eye on me. I told Potter he didn’t know what he was doing, I tried to warn him, but he wouldn’t listen—"

“How was I supposed to listen if you wouldn’t give me any fucking evidence?” Harry demanded. “Don’t blame me, Malfoy, for your Death Eater loyalties—"

“ _Harry_ ,” said Remus. “Go on, Draco.”

“She found out where I’d spent the holidays and stopped writing. That’s all.”

“Meanwhile, Tonks was still teaching and working with the Order,” Remus said gravely. “It didn’t occur to you to tell anyone?”

“Who was I supposed to tell?” Draco snapped. “I would have told Snape but I got him killed, didn’t I?”

Harry looked at him, then, this hunched figure in a chair, his mug of chocolate going cold; he looked vulnerable there, like a child. He felt a stab of the familiar longing and wanted, for a second, nothing more than to go to him and wrap him in his arms. Everything was confusing. He hated Draco. He didn’t. He—

“You could have told me,” Harry said, quietly.

“When you were blathering about Quidditch, shouting at me about Granger, or demanding I let you fuck me?” Draco said, so frankly that Remus coughed loudly to cover what might have been a laugh. “Now it’s your turn to tell the truth, Potter. Tonks warned you about me, didn’t she?”

Harry looked away. “So what if she did?”

“Who do you think you would have believed?”

Remus sighed. “Draco’s right, Harry. But it’s in the past now. We should—"

“No!” Harry exclaimed. He whirled on Draco. “Why did you agree to Defense lessons, then, were you just using them to spy on me? Is that what your mother wanted? Did Tonks know, too? Is that why you kept coming back, because those were your instructions, is that it?”

“No one told me to practice with you,” Draco snapped. “And my mother was rather incensed at the idea.”

“Harry,” Remus began, putting a hand on his shoulder, but Harry shook him off.

“Why, then?” Harry demanded. He stalked back towards his chair and picked up his mug savagely. “Why did you want to?”

“You looked at me,” Draco answered, so simply that Harry stilled and twisted to look at him again. He looked mortified at having to admit anything of the sort. “You were hexing me and then I jumped at you and you wrestled me to the ground, and I could see it in your eyes, Potter, how insignificant I was to you, how forgettable, and I thought it was true, everything you’d ever said, that you could care less. But I looked up and you were looking at me.”

Harry stared at him before turning back to the wall. He knew how it felt, he supposed, to be so singled out —that night at the club—

“You still hated me,” he said flatly. “You were horrible.”

“Well, forgive me for being conflicted!” Draco snarled. “I was curious about you, not fucking in love with you.”

Harry stared. “Conflicted? Malfoy, you were _helping to get me killed_!”

“I was trying to help you,” Draco said, and Harry could see in his eyes that, despite himself, he was telling the truth.

“Some help,” Harry spat. “Following in Daddy’s footsteps, is that it? Thought you’d make him proud when he came home for you?”

“ _Harry_!” Remus snapped. “That will be quite enough.” He turned to Dumbledore, who was listening calmly, eyes on the parchment. “Albus? Perhaps we might alter the record slightly—to cover Draco’s more, ahem, personal admissions—and, unless you have any questions?“

“I have none,” Dumbledore said, and his eyes twinkled. He picked up the quill and tucked it back into his pocket, along with the roll of parchment. He patted his pocket carefully. “I wouldn’t worry, Mr. Malfoy,” he said, smiling. “Your secrets are safe with me.”

“Very well. Draco, the Veritaserum should be wearing off,” Remus said. “I’m sorry you had to endure that. Veritaserum is never a pleasant experience. And as for old Mad-Eye, I wouldn’t worry about him. In the end, you’ve acquitted yourself very well, and that’s something to be proud of. And, Draco?” He paused in the doorway. It took a moment of silence before Draco lifted his head, but he did. Remus smiled at him. “Thank you.”

“Remus?” Harry said quickly, before he could disappear out the door. “Can I—I need some time alone with Draco. To ask him some questions.”

Remus looked towards Dumbledore, who inclined his head, and back towards Harry. “It’s been a long night, Harry,” Remus said quietly. “And we all have things to be ashamed of. Remember that. I’ll be back in a bit.”

Harry waited, leaning against the wall, as Dumbledore gave him a serene smile and exited, followed by Remus, who gave him a warning look before shutting the door. It was oddly quiet, the skritch of the quill gone, and the only sound their breathing.

After a moment, Draco said, “The Veritaserum’s worn off, Potter.”

“I don’t care,” Harry said honestly, and he folded his arms. “I need to know, and I’m trusting you to answer.”

"Now you’re here to interrogate me too?"

"Just answer my questions," Harry muttered. He leaned against the door. "Please.”

Draco looked as if he were about to answer with a retort, but something in Harry’s plea seemed to make him hesitate. Harry saw in his eyes a cold, cruel boy who had walked as if he owned Hogwarts, a boy who began every other sentence with "My father . . ." and sneered as if he had been born with that expression. But beyond that, he saw a boy who had kissed him in a dusty shed, a boy who had fought him and hated him and saved him and changed him, more than Harry was willing to admit.

Catching Harry watching him, his lip lifting in a bitter echo of an old sneer, Draco nodded. "Fine. Ask away."

Harry looked Draco squarely in the eye and steeled himself not to back down, even when his gaze crashed against those emotionless walls. Voice as steady as he could make it, he said, "Why did you want to be my friend?"

Draco blinked. He looked blankly up at Harry, as if that had not been the question he was expecting, and its deviation threw him off. Before he could stop himself, he blurted, "What?"

"In first year. You know, did your father tell you to, or what?"

Again, Draco hesitated, as if he were planning to answer sarcastically and then thought better of it. In the end, his eyes tore away from Harry's and he watched his hands as he spoke. "I'd never had many real friends. My mother wanted to keep her only son as 'her baby' as long as possible. Excuse me for wanting to make some. I don't see why you keep harping on it. Get it through your thick head, not everything is about you, Potter."

Harry thought of a proud, haughty little boy who said all the wrong things and was left with a hand refused. "I just wanted to know why you'd wanted to be my friend," he said quietly. "I'd never had real friends either."

"Touching," said Draco with a sneer. There was a cutting edge to his words. "Is the inquisition over yet?"

"No." Harry steeled himself. "Why do you call Hermione a Mudblood?"

"What is this, confession?"

"Tell me."

Draco shrugged. "I did because she is. Satisfied now, Potter?"

"No, I'm not. Why do you call them that? How come you hate Muggles so much, if you aren't following Voldemort?"

"You don't know anything," Draco said, and his voice was sharper than Harry expected. His tone seethed. "You come walking in here like the hero you think you are, so righteous and self-satisfied. Fuck you, Potter. You don't own the world."

Harry was outraged. " _Me_? I'm not the one who acts like it! You're the one who struts around like everyone else is dirt!"

Draco's eyes snapped with rage. "Did you know that Muggle-born wizards dilute the bloodline of Purebloods, Potter? Did you know that over forty percent of children from mixed descent are weaker than those of pureblood descent? Did you know that only four fifths of children from those mixed families are born with magic on average? They are slowly killing our magic! Did you know that, Potter? Of course you didn't. You only know what Granger tells you, and why would she tell you shameful statistics like that?"

"You can't judge people by how powerful they are," Harry shot back, certain Hermione would have tomes full of statistics of her own to refute each of Draco's claims. "So what if they don't have magic? Even if that is true, which I doubt, so what? There's nothing less noble, less human about them! You can't treat them like they don't exist!"

Draco was on his feet by this point, his words spilling out with more vehemence than Harry had ever heard from him. "And you can't clump us all together under the same category! I just want to survive! I want my family to survive! I want magic to survive! That's what you don't understand, Potter. My father would have killed a world to keep me strong. He would never let anything threaten our family line because he loves me that much!" He was past the point of going back. "Your father never did that for you."

"My dad loved me enough to die for me," Harry yelled. "Nobody's ever done that for you!"

"Oh, so now you're proud that you've got people killed? What a hero you are, Potter, sending your family and friends to death."

Sirius's lazy fall. Cedric's last smile. The flash of green. His mother's eyes. Seamus’s arm around his shoulder, an easy camaraderie. Dudley’s piggy grin. Sirius . . .

Harry barely realized that he had slid down the door until he was slumped against it, sitting with his knees curled to his chest. The silence was deafening. Draco stared down at him, looking terrified. "Potter?" It was clear by the glazed look in Harry's eyes that his voice hadn't registered. "Potter. Potter. I didn't—"

Empty, Harry looked up at Draco. He couldn't think through the sound of the pounding of his heart. "So why aren't you a Death Eater then, Malfoy?" he asked dully. "Why aren't you out there murdering people, if Muggle-born are so bad? Why did you save me from Tonks, if you think all of this?"

"I told you," Draco replied, though his tone was far more constrained this time. "You can't lump us all together. I hate what they represent, killing out the magic, slowly but surely turning us into them. But I'm not going to wipe them out because of it." Once, he might have smirked at this; now he only peered at Harry, half-afraid, half-belligerent. "I just don't want anything to do with them."

"My mum was Muggle-born," Harry said. His voice was still heavy. "That makes me half-Muggle."

"Yes, well. Since I want nothing to do with you, I think that settles it rather decisively. Now get out, Potter, I'm tired."

Standing above him, Draco looked achingly familiar and like a stranger all at once; he wasn’t sneering, he was simply staring away from Harry, his face a mask of coldness. For a brief, terrifying moment, Harry thought he looked like Lucius.

Lost, Harry pressed on, “What you said earlier. About, er, missing me, and how you were worried—I didn’t know, I thought you were just. I didn’t know.”

“Sometimes the truth has nothing to do with what someone wants,” Draco said tightly. “And I want nothing to do with you. We’re through, Potter.”

Harry stared at him for a long moment. Then he retorted, “Fine, Malfoy. Good. I never should have trusted you in the first place.” But though he climbed to his feet, he didn’t move. For a long moment, they simply stared at each other.

“Then leave,” Draco finally sneered. “Or do I have to hex you out of here? I have nothing more to say to you, Potter. Good night."

"I just thought," Harry muttered, "I just thought, if you've got something worth killing for, you should have something worth dying for."

Draco snapped, "What?"

"You're so ready to preserve magic for your descendants, but you can't even protect the magical world itself. That seems a bit hypocritical to me."

"You forget, Potter, that I've nothing to lose,” he snarled. “If the Dark Lord wins, I win. If you win, I win. Otherwise, I don't care. I'm not you."

“No,” Harry said. “You aren’t.”

“I’m a Slytherin,” Draco hissed at him. Harry had the sudden impression of seeing him for the first time, standing before him as a stranger. Was that how it would be from now on? “And you’re everyone’s favorite Gryffindor. How did you _think_ it would turn out, Potter?”

They were standing only a foot apart, but it seemed as if the entire country of Wales was between them. Harry thought that, in a way, it was.

“I don’t know,” he said simply. “I didn’t think about it.”

“Maybe you should next time.” For the first time, Harry realized what had changed, what made Draco’s voice so unrecognizable; he wasn’t furious, he wasn’t anything. He spoke as if he didn’t care.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, as coldly as he could manage in return, “there won’t be a next time.”

For the barest instant, emotion flashed in Draco’s eyes, and he looked as if he were about to speak. But before Draco had a chance to react, a loud knock sounded at the door. Harry yanked it open to find Remus looking wearily down at him.

“Harry,” he said, one hand resting on the doorframe. “I think that’s about enough, don’t you? It’s very late. And you both need to rest.”

“I, but,” Harry said. “What happened to Tonks? I haven’t heard—and I’m not—"

“In the morning,” Remus said gently. “It can wait. For now, I am going to bed, and so should you.” Glancing over Harry’s shoulder, he added, “And you, Draco. Good night, boys.” And with that, he gave Harry some small, sad look and turned away down the hall.

By the time Harry stepped back from the door, Draco had sat down once again in the chair by the window, his arms folded in impatience. His expression was cold and closed off. Harry thought he looked strangely small, sitting there, haughty and alone.

“Well?” Draco demanded, not looking at him. “You heard him. Time’s up. Get out of here, Potter.”

Tired, aching, not knowing what more to say, Harry went.


	9. Chapter 9

For the most part, things returned to normal after that night. Ron and Hermione had hardly been mollified by the barebones story he told them the next morning, but both seemed in unspoken agreement that they would accept it for the time being, seeing as Harry didn’t want to talk about it in the first place. Or think about it, come to that.

He had trusted Tonks. And he had trusted _Draco_. He didn’t feel betrayed by them as much as he felt betrayed by himself. He could hear Moody barking _Constant vigilance_! and felt ashamed. Wouldn’t he ever learn? The knowledge that Moody, too, had been fooled was little comfort.

The news had not made it in the Daily Prophet, of course, as Fudge seemed determined to strain out all relevant stories, but the Hogwarts rumor mill was running as usual. In the days after the attack, Harry heard from various sources that he had left Hogwarts to kill his aunt and uncle and finish the job he’d begun when he killed his cousin in July, that he had fought and killed a team of Aurors on the pretense they were all spies for Voldemort, and that he had been supporting an underground prostitution ring run by former professor Nymphadora Tonks. Harry could not decide which was the farthest from the truth.

And as for Draco, who miraculously was not a part of any of these rumors, he seemed to have forgotten that Harry existed. After almost six years of constant attention, whether wanted or unwanted, his silent treatment was a shock.

The Slytherins flanked him everywhere, it seemed, much like Ron and Hermione did to Harry just afterwards. He never saw Draco on his own, and usually he was whispering with Pansy Parkinson or making Blaise Zabini snort with laughter. The more Harry watched for him, the more he wished he could talk to him again, but it was to no avail. If there had been anything left between them, Draco seemed to think it was gone.

Maybe it was, Harry thought sometimes, hearing his familiar derisive laughter in Potions or seeing him disappear around a corner up ahead of Harry in the hall. Maybe this was the way of it: Draco was his father’s son, and Harry was James’s. There would be no next time, because it would always be the same. Draco was who he was. Even the fact that Harry had wanted him could not change that.

There was so much between them, so many arguments, so many differences; in the end, it was simply easier to hate him. And it seemed that was exactly what Draco wanted, too.

It was barely a week after the incident with Tonks when Professor McGonagall strode into Harry’s History of Magic class, interrupting a droning Binns and a thoroughly bored class to retrieve Harry. Ron had to poke him until he woke up, but he rapidly gathered his things and followed her from the room, Binns muttering, “Yes, yes, go ahead, Parker, off you go . . . where was I? Oh yes, the historic troll wars of 1352 . . .”

“Potter,” McGonagall said coolly, when they had reached the hall, “the Headmaster would like to see you. I trust you can find your way there on your own.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, “what does he want? Professor?”

“I expect you will find out soon enough,” she said, and eyed him with stern amusement. “Hold on just a moment, you’ve got a bit of drool right—yes, there you are.”

Harry flushed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Er, Professor? What’s the password?”

To Harry’s surprise, she gave him what might have been a wry smile and said, “Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum, of course. Now hurry along, Potter.”

She strode off in the opposite direction. Harry went down the Charms corridor, took the stairs to the second floor—which began to move just as he was nearly there, leaving him to jump the last three—and moved towards the empty corridor with the familiar stone gargoyle. It flexed its stone wings at him, but let him inside, and Harry rode the moving staircase upwards with trepidation. He wondered if there had been another attack. He wondered if more people had died because of him.

The first thing Harry saw when he entered the office was Dumbledore, who straightened immediately and smiled at him. “Ah, Harry,” he began, but Harry was already staring in shock at the other occupants of the room. Before he knew it, his wand was clenched in his hand.

“Harry, wait,” Tonks said. “I can explain.”

“I don’t want your explanation!” Harry snarled. He turned to Dumbledore, feeling betrayed, but Dumbledore only gave him an enigmatic smile, eyes twinkling. Harry turned back to Tonks, something tightening unpleasantly in his insides. “I don’t want to hear a fucking word from you.”

Beside Tonks sat an older, pale woman, who was clutching a black bag on her lap. She was looking around her in trepidation, and at Harry’s outburst, she stared at him in fright.

“Calm down, Harry,” Dumbledore said gently. “Tonks and her mother are here for a reason. If you refuse to listen to their explanation, perhaps you would permit me to clarify my purposes for bringing you—"

Harry still gripped his wand, feeling a surge of helpless hatred rush through him. He had come up with dozens of explanations for Tonks in the past week, in an almost desperate attempt to excuse what had happened, but here, with her before him, he only felt betrayed. “I don’t care,” he hissed. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“Now, Harry—"

“I said, I don’t care! I’m leaving!”

Dumbledore’s tone was serene, but there was no doubt that he meant it. “No, Harry,” he said. “You are not leaving yet. If you cannot bear to hear it from either of us, perhaps you’d like to hear it from Alastor Moody himself. Do you trust him?”

“I don’t trust anyone anymore,” Harry snapped, but he took the paper that Dumbledore handed to him. It was folded several times over and creased in strange places, as if it had once been a paper airplane like the memos Harry had seen on his visit to the Ministry. He glanced down at it disinterestedly, fuming inside.

_. . . the accused then described an incident in which she was approached by Narcissa Malfoy, formerly Narcissa Black, wife of Lucius Malfoy, a current fugitive wanted by the Ministry for Death Eater activity. Later, according to the testimony, the accused was also approached by Narcissa’s sister, Bellatrix Lestrange, who is now in custody of the Ministry of Magic and slated to be tried for collaborating with You-Know-Who and for several counts of murder and excessive torture. Bellatrix Lestrange threatened the accused and claimed that she would “murder [her] mother’s filthy Mudblood husband and cover [her] mother in his blood.” Upon returning home, after rejecting the offer, Nymphadora found this exact scenario in the living room of her family’s home . . ._

Feeling sick, Harry skipped down several paragraphs.

_. . . expressed greater desire to leave the employ of You-Know-Who, but she claims that she was repeatedly threatened . . . it is well known that those among You-Know-Who’s Death Eaters agree to a lifetime of service and no less . . ._

Harry glanced up at Tonks, whose eyes were trained on him, and her mother, who looked nowhere but her lap. Unable to meet Tonks’s gaze, he looked back to the report.

_. . . when she refused to kill Harry Potter, she claims she was threatened with death. Eventually, a new offer was made, in which the accused had only to deliver Harry Potter to those loyal to You-Know-Who in the guise of someone Harry trusted, and she would be granted freedom . . ._

“You used me,” Harry said coldly, meeting her eyes. “You selfish bitch. You thought you’d turn me in to save yourself.”

“It wasn’t like that, Harry,” Tonks argued, giving him a pleading look, “I gave you a chance to save yourself, I made sure you had your wand before I gave you the Portkey—"

Harry stared at her without seeing her. “I said I don’t want to hear a word from you. I don’t care what you’ve got to say.” He looked furiously down at the parchment again, to avoid Dumbledore’s sorrowful gaze.

_. . . arrived on the scene of the duel to, as she claimed, protect Harry from the fate she had set him. However, what she found was a capably Stunned Bellatrix Lestrange, and before she could explain herself to Harry Potter, he began to duel with her. Having no chance to respond, she dodged his spells, until he attempted the Killing Curse, though it did not succeed._

_“I had made a mistake,” the accused told her captors while under Veritaserum. “I was trying to make up for it."_

There were two more paragraphs, but Harry didn’t feel like reading on. He threw the parchment on Dumbledore’s desk, his anger futile. “Thought you’d make up for all the things you’d done wrong, did you?” he spat.

“I made a mistake,” Tonks said, and her voice was even, though she looked shaken. “I messed up, okay? They killed Dad and it scared me. They said they wouldn’t hurt my mum, they said I wouldn’t have to do anything really, just.” She glanced once up at her mother, then away. “Even you make mistakes.”

“Yeah,” Harry said jaggedly, “I did make a mistake, I trusted you. I should’ve known.”

Tonks looked shaken at this. Despite himself, Harry felt a pang of guilt stab through him, which only made his anger flare all the more. It would have been better if he’d been wrong about Tonks all along. It would have been better if she had only pretended to like the Aurors, to be friends with Hermione. But she had. She wasn’t some Pureblood woman who joined up to kill Muggles. She was still Tonks, through and through.

It was different, looking at her this way, like she was just some too-young Auror who had made a mistake.

“You killed Dudley,” Harry snarled, in a desperate grab for his ignorant fury. “That was you, wasn't it? That’s why you were there?”

“They said that was it,” Tonks said weakly. “I heard how you talked about your family. How rotten they were to you. It was like doing you a favor—"

“KILLING SOMEBODY IS NOT A FAVOR,” Harry shouted, and even Dumbledore looked taken aback at his vehemence. “HE WAS ONLY SIXTEEN! Maybe he was a fat useless lump and a bully besides, but it wasn’t all his fault, he was raised that way, and I don’t know if he ever did anything good his whole life, but now he doesn’t get a chance to, because he’s dead!”

Tonks looked away. “I didn’t want to do it,” she said.

“BUT YOU DID,” Harry yelled. “You did and that’s the difference right there, isn’t it?” He added, bitterly, “Anyway, if that’s all you were supposed to do, why didn’t you get out?”

“ _I couldn’t_ ,” Tonks said, such fierceness in her voice that he had to believe her. “I was supposed to kill your whole family. I didn’t know then, about the protection spell, Dumbledore just told me now. I didn’t know, Harry, or I wouldn’t have. But they said I’d messed up and then—"

“They,” Harry muttered dangerously. “Your _aunts_?”

“My sisters,” said Tonks’s mother. It was the first time she’d spoken and Harry looked at her again. Andromeda Black Tonks, her hair shot through with gray, her hands clenched tightly around the fabric of her bag. She spoke softly. “Narcissa and Bella. I never dreamed they would go after my daughter. I thought that perhaps we were still left out of the struggle, that perhaps they would leave us in peace.”

Harry snorted. “Voldemort? Fat chance there.”

“It seems that your Metamorphmagus abilities were too much for Voldemort to pass up,” Dumbledore interrupted. “Alastor’s report notes that they were quite persistent.”

“Well, Voldemort’s quite persistent in trying to kill me, isn’t he,” Harry snapped. “But that doesn’t mean he’s succeeded!”

“Not everyone is like you, Harry,” Dumbledore said calmly. “Now, would you like to sit down?”

“I don’t want to sit down!” Harry shot back. Dumbledore only raised an eyebrow at him as if to say, as you wish, which left Harry standing rather awkwardly in the middle of the office. Tonks, Andromeda, and Dumbledore were all looking at him patiently, awaiting his next outburst. It was nearly enough to send him into one.

“I wanted out,” Tonks said, not looking at him. Her eyes were glassy with what could only be the beginnings of tears, and that made Harry angrier than anything else: that after this, she could still want to cry about it, that she was guilty enough to do so. Part of him wanted her to try and hex him again, to praise Voldemort in front of him. It would be easier, he thought.

Tonks pushed on, “You don’t understand, I didn’t mean to get caught up in it, I just wanted–“

Sirius’s words came back to Harry, then, as he spoke about Regulus: _Well, you don’t just hand in your resignation to Voldemort_ , he’d said grimly. _It’s a lifetime of service or death._

Regulus had ended up dead. For the first time, Harry wondered whether he had deliberately chosen it over the lifetime of service.

“Is that why you were around me all the time?” Harry demanded, his voice coming out cruel. “Thought I’d save you, did you? Thought maybe I’d protect you?”

“I liked you, Harry,” Tonks said tightly. “I didn’t want to hurt you, I told them that, and Bellatrix said if I just gave you the Portkey, that’d be enough—I thought you could fight her, you were strong enough—and you were—"

Harry just stared at her. There were a thousand threads of emotion in him, and he couldn’t make sense of any of it.

“Look, I did change my mind,” Tonks said, more quietly, when he said nothing. “I was worried, I found you—I was going to help you, I was—"

“Help,” Harry said flatly. He felt cold. This Tonks, who seemed to him more like a girl than an adult, was impossible to hate outright, but how could he forgive her? After a moment, he said cruelly, “You’re just like Peter Pettigrew. Why are you still here?”

Tonks looked bewildered. She glanced around her at Dumbledore’s office. “I came to ask you—"

“Why,” Harry interrupted to repeat, “are you here? And not in Azkaban?”

Tonks paled at that, but Dumbledore was the one who answered. “Harry,” he said, hands folded on his desk, looking carefully at Harry through his half-moon glasses. “Do you truly believe that she belongs in Azkaban?”

“Yes!” Harry snapped. And then, “No. I—I don’t know, all right?”

“Harry,” Tonks said. He spun on her.

“How dare you? How dare you be that weak? How dare you give in to Voldemort?” he shouted. “People were counting on you! How dare you be scared? You aren’t supposed to be scared of anything! You’re Tonks—you—" He cut off, raggedly. Something in him seemed to collapse and he was almost shocked to find that he was still on his feet.

“Everybody’s scared of something,” Tonks said. “You should know that. Harry, I didn’t give away any Order secrets, I even bargained for Moody’s life, that’s why Bellatrix escaped. I thought I could—help—"

“I guess that makes you a real saint,” Harry said sarcastically. “I’ll bet Moody was real grateful to hear that one.”

Tonks looked away. “He won’t speak to me. I had my Auror license rescinded.”

“Serves you right,” Harry muttered, but his anger was seeping out of him. He looked at Dumbledore, who was watching him curiously, and just felt tired. “Why’d you come, then?” he asked, despite himself. “If you’re looking for forgiveness, I can’t.” It wasn’t angry this time, just tired, true. “I can’t.”

“I know,” Tonks said. She gave him a sad, half-hearted grin and it hurt; he knew that smile, almost expected her to wink at him and ask about Potions. He wondered if she ever would again.

“The Ministry has been lenient, with some persuasion,” Dumbledore said, giving Tonks and her mother a faint smile. “But it is best if they go into hiding for some time, just as a precaution. That’s where you come in, Harry.”

“What? What d’you mean?” He had sudden thoughts of Tonks and her mother hiding in 12 Grimmauld Place, and the idea made him ill.

But Dumbledore stood up and smiled. “The Fidelius Charm, of course,” he clarified, as behind him a few portraits nodded their heads in approval. “They will need to go somewhere that nobody can find them. And for that, they will need a Secret Keeper.”

“I still don’t—" Harry began, when it hit him. He glanced from Tonks to Dumbledore and back again. “But, why? Why _me_?”

“Who else?” Tonks said, and though her voice still carried that strange tone of rugged cheerfulness, there was something deeper there, more sorrowful. “I trust you.”

It was horribly ironic, and Harry stared at her, the way she sat there, a shaken and older Tonks, perhaps, but still Tonks. Her hair was brilliantly violet and spiked, the way he had first seen it in the hall of Number Four, Privet Drive, and though she looked drawn and tired, he could all too easily imagine her grinning that familiar grin at him, and drawling, “Wotcher, Harry . . .” She was wearing a handful of pins on her robes, and he swore he could make out the shape of a drummer on one, moving its tiny arms. He wasn’t sure if that made him want to laugh or cry.

Finally he said, not looking at her, “What do I have to do?”

Harry didn’t tell anyone about the Fidelius Charm, but he felt, in the days after, that everyone could tell: it felt strange, walking around with something inside him that no one, not even Dumbledore, knew. It was somehow warming, and somehow terrifying, that he was carrying something so key to two people’s lives, which he could let slip at any time. But to have it, like it was locked up inside him, maybe that was a bit like forgiveness, in its own way.

He wondered if this was how Peter Pettigrew felt. He wondered if Peter Pettigrew had ever thought twice about betraying Harry’s mum and dad.

“How does it feel?” Remus asked him gently, when Harry went to his rooms for tea. He looked gray and tired, sitting there with a stack of essays on his lap, and something in Harry’s chest tightened protectively at the sight of him. “Albus thought I should know as well, in case you had any . . . questions.”

Harry sat down across from him and said, “It feels heavy,” before he could think about it. “I don’t know. It’s kind of nice.”

“That’s what Peter said,” Remus responded quietly, though he continued on before Harry could flare up, “And how do _you_ feel?”

“Heavy,” Harry repeated. “Tired. Lots of things.”

“Not betrayed?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, “yeah, I.” He didn’t want to talk about it, and glanced instead around Remus’s humble sitting room, but there was nothing to spark a different vein of conversation. He finally said, “The DA’s getting along well. Even Neville’s and Luna’s duel last week was all right.”

Remus ignored his change of subject. “How’s Draco?”

“How should I know how he is?” Harry snapped. “I could care less about him.”

“You can’t turn your feelings on and off with a switch.” Remus was looking at him with too much understanding. It annoyed Harry, who scowled. “I think you do care about him, Harry, and that worries you just as much. I don’t blame you for being upset. But perhaps you should talk to him.”

“I don’t want to talk to him!” Harry said furiously. “He’s just as bad as Tonks, he—he went along with it—"

Remus stirred his tea, sipped, and calmly set it back on the table. “This has given you a lot to think about,” he said. “Not everything is as simple as it seems. Not all our enemies are hooded figures who hate Muggles, are they?”

It felt too much like a lecture, and Harry kicked at the table, something sullen settling in the pit of his stomach. “Lucius Malfoy is.”

“Not to Draco,” said Remus.

“I don’t care—I don’t want to talk about him,” Harry exclaimed, glaring at his hands when he could not bring himself to glare at Remus directly. “Can’t we talk about—about Quidditch?”

Remus gave him a thin, amused smile. “Harry, I’d love to talk about Quidditch with you any time. But I do know what it feels like to be betrayed by someone you love. And how alone you must feel.”

“I don’t _love him_ ,” Harry said desperately, “I don’t—not even close—" He got to his feet in a hurry. The last thing he wanted to talk about was Draco, and coming in at a close second was Sirius, which Remus seemed equally inclined to bring up. “Look, I forgot, I told Ron I’d help him with Transfiguration, I’ve got to go—"

He left Remus sitting there with his lukewarm tea and his sad eyes, and Remus let him, which made Harry even angrier. He felt furious and desperate all at once, with nowhere to go, and he was even contemplating going back to Remus just so he could shout that he didn’t care one bit about Draco Malfoy, when he ran smack into Dumbledore.

“Harry,” Dumbledore exclaimed, while Harry reeled at his appearance. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see Harry, and added genially, “How are you feeling?”

“Angry,” Harry said rudely, because it was true. He stared at the ground. “And no, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Ah,” said Dumbledore. “Could this, perhaps, have something to do with Draco Malfoy?”

“It has nothing to do with him!” Harry snarled, hands fisting. “What is this? First Remus and now you! Did you find me on purpose? Did he tell you to come looking for me? _I don’t want to talk about Malfoy!_ And I’m tired of all of you trying to bring it up!”

Dumbledore said mildly, “And why would that be, Harry?”

“Because you want me to save him and I won’t,” Harry said promptly, and the truth of it hit him after he spoke.

“Ah,” Dumbledore repeated. After a moment, he said, “I’m pleased to hear it.”

Caught off guard, Harry snapped, “What?”

“I’m pleased to hear you aren’t set on curing Mr. Malfoy of his personality,” Dumbledore elaborated, eyes twinkling. “For that would be almost as foolhardy as caring only about one part of someone and ignoring the rest. In a void, perhaps that could work. In the real world, it never does.”

“I didn’t forget who he was,” Harry muttered, drawn into conversation despite himself. “I just—"

Dumbledore nodded solemnly, though his eyes still seemed to be smiling. “It’s very easy to love those who are similar to ourselves, Harry,” he said. “The challenge is to reach out to those who are not. I believe Hermione Granger has been a wonderful proponent of House unity. She is not wrong to think that together, even with our differences, we are stronger than we are apart.”

“You’re telling me that trusting Malfoy, even if he’s got his dad’s best interests in mind, is going to make me stronger?” Harry said loudly. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I am telling you nothing except that, at times, love can be the strongest bond of all.”

Harry was torn between snorting in derision and kicking something in fury at the idea that he and Draco could be better off in love. He scowled. “Maybe I don’t want to,” he said. “Maybe I don’t care, maybe I want to stop caring about everybody, it hasn’t done me any good—"

Dumbledore looked quietly appalled; a shocked expression came into his blue eyes. "Not feel? But Harry, how else can we reach out to the world? How would we manage, day to day, to be satisfied with our existence?"

Harry crossed his arms. "But it's not worth it," he said angrily. "My mum, my dad, all of them, they all died because they loved me. It doesn't do them any good to know I loved them, especially my parents! I didn't even know them yet! And Cedric, he died for me, and I hardly knew him. And—and Sirius—there was never time, and—"

After a moment of staring at the rapidly blurring stone floor, Harry realized that he had tears in his eyes. It shocked him, and he wiped them away furiously. "It's not worth it," he said again.

"Yes, but Harry—"

"Listen, I don't want more people to die! I don't want them to go to their deaths because they love me; that makes it twice as bad because I can't do anything about it! There are loads of people just waiting to die for me, and I know they _would_ , and I can't stop it, I can't do anything, and I should because if I did it right, really right, then nobody else would have to die. Just Voldemort. And maybe me."

Dumbledore spoke softly. "And do you want to die unloved, Harry?"

"No, but—"

"And these friends of yours, this family of sorts, all of these people who care about you, if they must die, do you want them to die without ever knowing you cared for them?"

"I—"

"You don't really want to become what you say you want to become," Dumbledore said, his eyes sparkling gently. "You don't want to become cold, unemotional, unfeeling. How do you think Tom Riddle became your current nemesis? It wasn't because he won power. It was because he lost his heart."

"But loving anybody isn't going to bring my parents or Cedric or Sirius back," Harry challenged. "And it's not going to help me when I confront Voldemort."

"Your parents' time was over," said Dumbledore, "and they lived their lives. They loved. They died. It is a sad thing when people die, especially at the hands of others, but we do all we can to make their lives—and ours—worthwhile. Nobody has forever, Harry. Maybe you’ll kill Voldemort. Perhaps he will kill you. You could die. You can't know that; all you can do is make sure you have lived."

Harry glared at the floor. “I don’t see what love has to do with that,” he insisted stubbornly.

“You’ll remember the room of which I spoke, in the Department of Mysteries, the one that is locked at all times. I told you last June that what is studied within that room is what makes you so powerful an opponent against Voldemort.”

Harry persisted with a frown, “But it’s not a weapon! It doesn’t help me any. And loving somebody doesn’t change a thing.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Dumbledore said, sounding serene. “We do have the power to change each other, Harry. In loving someone else, we become more than we are. It can destroy you or it can change you and strengthen you in ways you never dreamed.”

“But I never set out to change him,” Harry said softly before he could help it, realizing as he spoke that it was true.

Dumbledore smiled at him. “I wasn’t talking about young Mr. Malfoy,” he clarified, eyes twinkling. “And now I’m afraid I’m rather delayed for a late night tea with Minerva. I should hate to keep her waiting.”

“I,” Harry said, flustered, “all right.”

“Good night, Harry,” Dumbledore said gently, and there was a thread of pride in his voice that Harry had not heard before. Dumbledore laid a hand on his shoulder, a sudden warm weight, and then he was gone.

The last week in February, the cold spell broke, and with it, Harry’s resolve. He was leaving the Room of Requirement after a particularly long DA meeting, after everyone else had gone, when he opened the door and came face to face with Draco. Draco’s eyes immediately went wide with shock at the sight of Harry.

And Harry, who had not been that close to him in weeks, had to push down the urge to seize his robes and drag him closer.

“Excuse me, I was just going,” Draco said tightly, unable to ignore him in such close proximity. His voice was as cold as it had ever been and, before Harry could even begin to answer, Draco turned away from him.

Harry said, desperately, “Wait.”

Draco stopped. He didn’t turn around.

“I don’t want this,” Harry pushed on, feeling as if his heart were pounding in the back of his throat. “I can’t stand this, you won’t even look at me, and I want—"

Draco spun and locked eyes with him. “Yes,” he said, coolly, as if he were speaking to a first year who’d dared to bother him, “what is it you want?”

Harry said, without tearing his eyes away, “I want you to cast the Cruciatus Curse on me like you really mean it, or I am not going to let you walk away like this.” He pushed closer to Draco, their faces inches apart. “Come on, Malfoy. I’ve always wanted to know. Do you hate me, or are you all talk?”

He rather liked the look of shock on Draco’s face.

“You’ve really done it now, Potter,” Draco hissed, something like terror in the edges of his voice. “You’ve lost it. You belong in St. Mungo’s. You’re crazy.”

“Are you going to do it?”

Draco sneered. It was a cover, Harry realized, the way it sometimes was; he sneered when he was lost for words, or embarrassed, or afraid. “As if you’d let me draw my wand in front of you,” he snapped. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll hex you, Potter? Don’t trust me anymore, do you?”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Harry said, raising an eyebrow. “I’d let you do it. That is, unless you’re scared.”

“I told you, Potter, your threat of calling me scared is hardly incentive for me to do anything,” Draco said scornfully. After he said it, he paled, perhaps realizing that he’d alluded to a time when they were on speaking terms, and added, “Besides, I’d rather not tarnish my record with the Ministry, if you don’t mind. As the last remaining Malfoy, I feel I’ve a reputation to uphold.”

For a cold moment, Harry realized that in all that had happened, he’d forgotten about Draco’s mother. Challenge momentarily forgotten, he asked, “Your mother?”

“Under house arrest until her trial,” Draco said, his eyes flashing cold and unfamiliar. “I heard the Metamorphmagus is going to testify.”

Something twisted in his stomach, whether the secret he kept or some silent recognition; he thought, briefly, painfully, _This is Draco_. After a moment, Harry said, “Do you think she’ll get off?”

“Of course not,” Draco snapped. “Fudge has been salivating for more Malfoy blood for months. And we haven’t the money to bribe him.”

Harry said, without thinking, “I do.”

Draco stared at him. Finally, in a voice tight with disdain, he said, “I don’t take charity, Potter. Haven’t you learned anything?”

“I guess not,” Harry said and smiled faintly. “What are you going to do, then? If your mum’s gone?”

But the moment seemed to have passed, and Draco turned away from him sharply. “If you’ve forgotten, Potter, I want nothing to do with you,” he snarled. “I have absolutely nothing to say to you. Get out of my sight or I’ll report you for harassing a Prefect.”

“You don’t really hate me,” Harry said steadily, undeterred. “If you hated me, you’d curse me, and that would be the end of it.”

“It’s not that simple!” Draco shouted, pinking up in fury. Despite himself, Harry took a step backwards, back into the room, and Draco stalked forward after him. “You think everything’s easy, Potter? Looking for easy answers? Because I hate you, I do—"

“Then prove it,” Harry challenged. “Or what’s the matter, Malfoy, Daddy told you to lay low for a while? Play nice?”

“I HAVEN’T SPOKEN TO MY FATHER SINCE JUNE,” Draco yelled, “AND I’M NOT EVEN ALLOWED TO TALK TO MY MOTHER NOW, ALL RIGHT? NOW I HAVEN’T GOT ANYONE, POTTER, I’M ALONE, ARE YOU HAPPY?”

Harry went cold, and it took him a blank moment before he could even manage to say, quietly, “You aren’t alone.”

“No? Who’ve I got, then, you?” Draco looked openly contemptuous. “Oh, please. You’d drop me the instant I said a word against the Weasel.”

“Then don’t,” Harry suggested levelly. Draco stared at him.

“Excuse me if I don’t leap at the chance to get cozy with your happy little family,” Draco finally sneered. “I’d rather be a Hufflepuff than make nice with Ron Weasley.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you do know his name,” he said. “See? Not so hard.”

“You don’t get it,” Draco snarled, “you stupid Gryffindor, you think everybody’s just like you—"

“No, I don’t.” Harry looked at him evenly. “Malfoy, I don’t. I’m not daft, I know who you are. I know who your father is. I know what you’ve done. I know you hate Hermione and Ron, and I know you’d rather die than work for Dumbledore. So don’t call me stupid.”

Draco looked about to speak, but Harry went on, “And I know you saved my life more than once, which I guess means I owe you, and I don’t take that lightly. I know you like Lupin—you can deny it, but you respect him, don’t you? Even if he is a werewolf. And I know you kissed me. So no, _Draco_ , it’s not simple, and it’s not easy. But I’m here.”

“You put my father in Azkaban,” Draco said shakily. “And probably my mother.”

Harry was unwavering. “You know why I did it. I’d do it again. So where does that leave you?”

“I can’t help how I feel about my father,” Draco snapped, turning away from Harry to look doggedly at the wall. He barreled on, so quietly that Harry wondered for a moment if he was hearing things, “But I can’t help how I feel about you, either.”

“I’d kill him,” Harry said flatly. “If I had to, Draco, I’d kill him, and anybody else who stands between me and Voldemort. And he’d kill me if he could. You know he would.”

Draco just looked at him.

“I mean it,” Harry pushed. “You included, I’d kill you if I had to do it. I want you to know.”

“But you didn’t,” Draco said, almost curiously. “In Little Whinging, when you thought the Metamorphmagus was me. You couldn’t.”

“I didn’t want to. I wouldn’t want to. But I would.” He looked at Draco, standing several steps from him, as if they were too painful to make. He said, tightly, “So what is it, Malfoy, me or your father?”

“You want me to _choose_?” Draco demanded heatedly. “Potter, it’s _not that simple_.”

“No,” Harry said. “It isn’t. But some things have to be.”

Draco stared at him. Then he stalked across the room, picked up a whirling Sneakoscope from where it stood on the table, and hurled it at the cracked Foe Glass that stood beside it. In the silence that followed the crash, he muttered so furiously that at first, Harry couldn’t comprehend the meaning in what he’d said, “It’s _been_ you, Potter, are you blind?”

“I,” Harry said, stunned, when he’d recovered. “I didn’t know.”

“Well, now you do,” Draco snarled. “Now get out.”

Harry had to smile at the furious note in Draco’s voice, which he had no intention of heeding. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said stubbornly. “Since when?”

“ _It doesn’t matter_.”

“I want to know,” Harry insisted, stepping closer to him, though he was careful to avoid the broken glass. “Draco.”

“We were practicing the Patronus spell,” Draco said, so coldly that Harry almost thought he was angry. “You told me to think of a happy memory, so I thought of my father.”

“And?”

Draco met his eyes with such sudden force that Harry could not look away. “And it was from years ago, on some stupid Potions exam, when he was proud of me,” he hissed. “I knew he’d never be, not now, and then you told me it was nice. You said it was good. That’s all. Lord, Potter, are you satisfied now?”

Harry snorted despite himself. “So, what, I’m now your father figure?”

“Potter, that’s sick.” Draco gave him a disparaging look. “You’re clearly disturbed. Leave me out of your nauseating fantasies.”

“Shut up,” Harry said tolerantly. “I have another question.”

He could see Draco steeling himself for it, could see it in the way he clenched his jaw. “Well, ask it already, then, I haven’t got all night,” he snapped.

“Why did you have your wand on the pitch that day?”

Draco looked startled, and Harry realized that he’d probably expected something else. Nevertheless, Draco narrowed his eyes at him. “Because I was planning on hexing you,” he spat. “Why else?”

Harry grinned; he couldn’t help it. This was Draco. He knew that now. This was Draco, who tried to hex him, who cheated at Quidditch, who hated Muggles and would never like Ron, whose gaze was turning anxious at the way Harry was looking at him, standing there in the midst of broken glass with his hands half-curled into fists. He was incorrigible and spider-thin and petty and vain, and Harry couldn’t understand it, but he wanted him more than he’d ever wanted anybody in his life.

“Okay,” he said, softly, and reached out to grab Draco’s wrist. He tugged him gently towards him. “Good. That’s what I thought.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Draco demanded, twisting in Harry’s grasp. “Get off me, Potter—"

Harry ignored him and pulled him closer. “I don’t think so,” he said, fingers curling around the thin bones in Draco’s wrist. He felt almost fragile. Harry said, half-smiling, “I thought you chose me, Malfoy.”

“To not die,” Draco sniffed, looking annoyed, “not to kiss, Potter. I’ll have you know that never in my life have I planned to kiss my father.”

“Good,” Harry said dryly. “I’m relieved.” And then he fisted his free hand in the front of Draco’s robes, pulled him forward hard, and put his mouth on Draco’s.

He had missed this, and he hadn’t even known he had missed it, he hadn’t understood how much; Draco was warm against him, and his mouth opened without hesitation, kissing slick and desperate, and Harry slid his hand from Draco’s wrist up to his shoulder and pulled him in harder, until their bodies were aligned, hips sharp against flesh, Draco’s hand going around Harry and curling there, settling almost easily in the small of his back. Draco made a small demanding noise in the back of his throat when Harry buried his face in his neck and licked along the curve of it. Draco tasted salty-sweet like sweat and some kind of flowery soap, and Harry could feel him shifting against his thigh, could feel them wordlessly moving to fit better.

Harry pulled back, Draco’s breath hot on his cheek, enough to stumble blindly forwards and pitch them both onto the couch, Draco beneath him. He was bony and sharp and hissed a little when Harry’s thigh slid easily and unexpectedly into the space between his, and Harry yanked off his glasses, dropping them to the table.

“Potter,” Draco said, shakily, and then Harry slid his hands under Draco’s shoulders and up to tangle in his hair and kissed him again before he could say anything more.

It was easier this time, more familiar, even. He had forgotten how smooth Draco’s skin was under his fingertips, and the way his breath hitched when Harry touched him. He’d forgotten the way it felt, Draco’s hand skimming hard up his back, hips jerking under him.

When Harry tore his mouth away, he reached up a hand and brushed Draco’s hair off his forehead, almost hesitantly. He touched Draco’s cheek with the backs of his fingers, slid down to brush Draco’s mouth with the knuckle of his index finger. Wordlessly, Draco looked up at him and waited.

Harry said, low, with an intake of breath, “This is you, isn’t it?”

Under him, Draco winced, the memory of Tonks fresh in both of their minds. Then he leaned up into Harry, slid a hand around the back of his neck, and pulled him down until they were nearly close enough to kiss. He whispered, almost harshly, “It’s always been me, Potter.”

Harry was kissing him again before he even knew what he was doing; it was desperate, lewd, their mouths sliding hotly and Draco’s tongue in his mouth, him grinding down against him, breathing hard at the shock of it. He pressed a wet kiss to Draco’s jaw and slid down, shoved aside his robes and the shirt beneath to get at the sharp rise of his collarbone, the hollow just above.

“I missed you,” Harry muttered, harsh, into his shoulder, and when he bit down on the muscle there, Draco hissed out, “ _Harry_ ,” and it was nearly enough to make Harry come right there, moving against him.

“I want,” Draco breathed, “I want you to—"

“Wait,” Harry said, and shrugged off his robes, kicked his trainers off the end of the couch. “Here—sit up—" He helped Draco struggle out of his robes and then was tugged at the buttons on his shirt, until Draco pushed at him and said, “Potter,” exasperatedly, and undid them in a hurry. Harry pulled his own shirt off in one fluid motion over his head, and had barely dropped it before Draco pulled him down again, his skin warm under Harry, both of them warm, touching, moving against one another.

Harry slid his palm down and rubbed Draco through his trousers, and Draco arched up and seized Harry’s earlobe in his teeth, and hissed raggedly, right into his ear, “Oh god, fuck me,” and Harry groaned, cock swelling at the sound of it.

“I want to,” Harry said breathily, “I want—we can’t, we don’t have anything—"

Which was, of course, when he glanced sideways and saw a small, brightly colored pot perched on the end of the table, and he picked it up with a half-groan, half-laugh.

The Room of Requirement. Of course.

When he saw it, Draco snickered, momentarily distracted. “What else does this room do?” he said, sitting up on his elbows and glancing around him with interest. “Will it bring me mixed drinks? What if I wanted a line of dancing girls? An elephant?”

“Try it out some other time,” Harry said, and tightened his hand around Draco’s hip, fingers brushing under his waistband, catching Draco’s attention rather hurriedly. “I’d rather—not deal with an elephant right now—"

“If I must,” Draco sighed with exaggerated disappointment, but when Harry leaned in to kiss him again, he said against his mouth, “All right—no elephants—"

“Good,” Harry whispered, and sat up to lean over him, palm against his cheek. “Are you still—do you want to?”

Draco flushed, but he said, “I, yeah—" and reached down to undo the button on his trousers. Harry moved off him enough that he could lift his hips and wriggle out of them. Without Harry’s glasses, from this distance, Draco was difficult to make out in detail; he looked pale and small, lying there, one knee bent and the other leg lying straight, his cock swollen and red against his white skin. Harry had a flash of fear that he would hurt him and couldn’t see the look on his face.

“Are you just going to stand there?” Draco said irritably, after a moment, and Harry reddened and started to undo his own trousers. His cock was painfully hard and he moaned under his breath when his wrist brushed against it as he pushed down the waistband of his pants.

Harry slid back above him and Draco made a mewling noise when they touched; their mouths met, and Harry swallowed the sounds, felt electric with the near-forgotten pleasure of Draco’s skin against his pulsing cock, moaned when Draco bit down hard on his lip.

He was achingly hard, the very idea of fucking Draco cemented in the back of his mind, and when Draco tentatively slid his right leg up and propped it on the back of the couch, thighs spread under Harry, heat flared tight in his stomach. “You sure,” he whispered hard in Draco’s ear, and Draco hissed, “Yes—Potter—" and Harry kissed him, wet, desperate, Draco kissing him back hungrily.

The lid was screwed on too tightly and he flushed while trying to open it, and then the lube was cold on his fingers, sticky and strange. He glanced down at Draco, whose eyes looked dark from this angle, and the way the pale muscles in his thighs were tight and smooth. _Oh god_ , Harry thought, _this is, oh god_ , and he instinctively leaned in and pressed a dry kiss to the place just under Draco’s knee, before kneeling there and reaching out, almost scared, with slick-wet fingers.

Draco’s breath hissed out when Harry worked one finger inside him, and Harry had trouble breathing himself when Draco clenched around him, slick and hot. Draco’s prick was glistening with precome as he fisted it lazily, and his breath sounded shaky and uneven as Harry slid his finger in and out of him, one, then two.

“Potter,” he panted, voice reedy, and Harry pushed deeper, the sound of Draco’s voice going straight to his own cock. He slid a third in and twisted, tight, just as Draco’s brow furrowed and he breathed, “stop, wait,” and then, “oh, keep—like that,” and Harry wanted to fuck him, needed to, wanted to arch over him and push inside him.

The lube was slippery on his fingers and Harry couldn’t help the soft noise in the back of his throat as he smeared it over his cock; then he was scared, for a moment, leaning over Draco and not knowing what to do. His right hand slid down to press against Draco’s thigh, and he said jaggedly, “Draco,” harsh, and then again, as if as an afterthought, and pushed forward.

It was slippery and difficult, and for an instant he was caught up in the way Draco’s expression tightened, as if in pain, so much so that he nearly pulled away. Draco shifted his hips, then, and Harry moved inside him so slowly he thought he might die; it was graceless and perfect and he felt everything loudly, his heart beating, the clock ticking, Draco’s breathing harsh against the air. “ _Potter_ ,” Draco said again, then, and there was something so tight and private about the way he hissed it that Harry’s breath caught, and he slid deeper inside him, Draco’s hand flying down to curl again around his cock. He made breathy, quiet moans when Harry slid into him, and Harry tried to memorize them in the haze of it, tried to catch it all, preserve it.

Draco came first, head thrown back; he made a small, desperate noise and spurted warm over his own fingers, come wet and sticky against Harry’s stomach. Harry kept moving, a few swift thrusts, and he thought the lights might have flickered, though it could have been his imagination, before he closed his eyes and the shock of his orgasm knifed through him.

They were silent afterwards, their breathing loud, everything sticky and awkward; Harry slid out of him and buried his head in the heated, sweat-slick place between Draco’s shoulder and neck. “I,” Harry said, muffled against his skin, and he wanted to say something, but he thought Draco knew, must know.

Draco’s hand came up to settled restlessly in Harry’s hair, and he slid his leg down shakily, foot rubbing against Harry’s calf. “Potter,” he said, as if he couldn’t keep it in any longer, “look, just because I said that about my father, I still love him, he's still—"

“Draco,” Harry groaned, “are you seriously thinking about your father _now_?”

“I want you to know,” Draco said petulantly.

“I do know,” Harry said. He lifted his head and looked at Draco, who looked back at him, both of them suddenly solemn. He wanted to touch him on the mouth, gently, or to kiss him hard enough to bruise, but he looked at him for a long, silent moment, and thought maybe that was enough. “I know that. I know.”

Later, after they cleaned up the mess and Draco irritably Vanished the broken glass in the corner of the room, Harry leaned up on one elbow and gazed down at Draco, who was beginning to look slightly drowsy. “Your hip is too bony,” Harry started to say, because it was digging into his thigh, only what really came out was, “I have to tell you something,” and he blinked.

Draco blinked, too, in a way that meant he was listening. There was something open about his gaze, or quiet, which could be why Harry said recklessly,

“Do you know what happened in the Department of Mysteries last June?”

“Look, Potter,” Draco snapped, flaring up just as Harry expected, “first you don’t want to talk about my father, and now you want to rub it in, will you make up your mind—"

“I’m not talking about your dad,” Harry said. He knew he was frowning, but he couldn’t help it. “I meant, do you know why we were there? In the Ministry?”

“No,” Draco said, looking irritable at having to admit it.

“There’s a prophecy there,” Harry explained, not quite looking at him. “It’s about me and Voldemort. It says that, um, I’m the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord. And that neither of us can live while the other survives.”

Draco stared at him, waiting.

“It means,” Harry continued doggedly, “that I’m the only one with the power to defeat him. Either he kills me or I kill him. There’s no other way.”

Draco was silent for a long moment. Then he said, sounding more curious than malicious, “Did Granger cry when she heard?”

“I didn’t tell Hermione and Ron,” Harry said. He was proud of how steady he’d managed to keep his voice. “I’ve only told you.“

Draco looked over at him without speaking, then reached out and ran a finger down Harry’s scar. After what seemed like minutes, he leaned forward, kissed the corner of Harry’s mouth, and said, “Potter,” as if it meant something monumental.

Harry looked at him, at Draco, lying there under the fluorescence of the lights. Something tightened inside him, unfamiliar and strange, at the way Draco’s eyes fluttered closed, the near-content expression on his pointed face. He was warm and bony against Harry, and he carried so many complications that anyone sane could have told Harry he was being reckless to the point of danger, and Harry wanted nothing more, in that particular moment, than this. He didn’t know if this was love, this strange ache in the pit of his stomach, the way he bled relief at the very notion that they weren’t fighting anymore. He felt different, though. No, not different, just—more himself, maybe. He wasn’t sure if that was it, but it sounded all right.

“Thanks,” Harry said quietly, fingers gently tracing along the line of Draco’s jaw. He thought of a time, not so long ago, when it was inconceivable to be grateful to Draco Malfoy for anything. “Thank you.”

Draco’s eyes opened, reluctantly, and he gave Harry a soft look before saying, “I’ve no idea what you’re blathering about, Potter, but I’d rather you—oh, fuck. It’s late, I hadn’t noticed—"

Harry sighed; the clock did, in fact, read half past ten, which was far later than he’d realized. “I suppose we should go,” he said.

“You suppose?” Draco extricated himself from Harry with startling alacrity, elbowing Harry several times in the process, and leapt to his feet. “We have to go _now_ , I’ve got to do Potions, I haven’t even started on my Transfiguration notes, and Pansy’ll kill me if I don’t return her book by the morning—"

“It’s like you’re channeling Hermione,” Harry muttered, and gave him a warning glare before Draco could even open his mouth. “All right, then, we’ll go.” He followed Draco from the room, straightening his robes.

At the door, Draco turned, and Harry caught at his arm before he could move away. They kissed there, half in the dim hallway, Harry’s foot holding the door open. Draco slid his fingers through Harry’s hair and sighed against his mouth. Harry’s throat tightened in sudden tenderness.

“Good night,” Harry said, after, almost hesitantly.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Good night,” he said, his expression turning smug. “You are aware that, naturally, I’ll have to take points for being out after curfew? As a Prefect, I take my responsibilities very seriously. There will be no special treatment for you, Harry Potter.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Harry said, grinning. Draco smiled before he slipped away.

Harry told Ron and Hermione the whole story the next afternoon. It was an unusually warm day for February, and they pulled on jumpers and went to sit by the lake with their homework. Both listened solemnly to him, though when he got to the part about the prophecy, Hermione clapped her hand to her mouth, and Ron said, “No way!”, eyes going wide and worried.

“I’m so sorry, Harry,” Hermione began, but he shook his head.

“Let me finish.”

He told them about the nightclub on his birthday, and the way Tonks had approached him; Hermione frowned when he alluded vaguely to how Tonks had distracted him in her rooms, and Ron looked slightly gleeful. He told them about Draco, too, and while Ron’s mouth tightened, he said nothing.

Harry explained that he had talked with Tonks and been forced to face her reasons for betrayal, without mentioning the Fidelius Charm in any specifics. Both looked grim at the mention of Tonks, though Hermione made a small sound of sympathy when Harry told them about how Ted Tonks had been murdered, and she nodded at several points in his story, as if she understood.

When Harry finished, there was silence. And then Hermione looked over at him, eyes brimming with tears. “Oh, Harry,” she said softly, putting a comforting hand on his knee and squeezing, “are you all right?”

He felt weightless at the same time he felt as if a great burden were resting on his shoulders; something buoyant was brimming inside him and burned as it did. He had the leaden pain of grief dulling a place in his chest, and something prickling, something close to hope. He had no home, no family to speak of. But he had his friends. Someday, somewhere, he might have to die and, so doing, might fail a whole world.

But the sun was out. Hermione had her hand on his knee and Ron was sprawled out beside him, tossing dead grass into the lake. It was only Friday afternoon. And across the lawn, he could see Draco, threatening a first year, no doubt. As he watched, Draco glanced up and saw him.

“Yeah,” Harry said.

He knew how he felt now. Alive.


End file.
